


The Boy Away

by Neshnyt_Jackalsson



Series: Russian Colony America [1]
Category: Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate History, Gaslighting, Gen, M/M, Nation Parenting, PTSD Russia, Peace is complicated, Political Fuckery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-09-24 22:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 71,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9790760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neshnyt_Jackalsson/pseuds/Neshnyt_Jackalsson
Summary: The Seven Years' War ended in a stunning conclusion: the annexation of 13 formerly British colonies into the Russian Empire.The list of individuals unhappy with this is exceedingly long, and starts with America himself, who has no desire whatsoever to become Russian thank you very much.Russia, having never raised a colony, finds himself woefully unprepared for the task ahead of him, and quietly terrified of passing on the damage he took as a child.With the political landscape of Europe in chaos, everyone stands to gain--or lose--much as alliances shift and territory changes hands...





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Actual History:
> 
> A scant two weeks' out from what was slated to be a stunning Russian victory over Prussia in the Seven Years' War, Empress Elizaveta of Russia died, leaving the throne to her nephew Peter III--a staunch Prussophile and die-hard fanboy of Fredrick the Great. 
> 
> Peter III forced Russia to switch sides and march against their former ally, Austria, ultimately winning the war for Prussia. In the rest of Europe, France lost the chance to bring Russia to bare against England on the Continent, and his the dim hope of reopening the New World theatre of the war (what had been called the French and Indian War by the British colonists).
> 
> This history: 
> 
> Empress Elizaveta lives. These are the consequences.

He could hear their entire conversation through the closed door and knew they were talking about him. He had heard his name once already, accented in that strange way that made it sound like not his name at all. Everything else was gibberish, and he was beginning to understand why England hated French.

He slid down the wall beside the door and tucked his knees to his chest. The guard stationed at the base of the stairs wouldn’t let him pass and sitting alone in the empty inn room made him feel like he would scream, so eavesdropping was the next best thing. But of course they’d speak French in private, why would France and his crony speak English? He wondered if he’d had to learn French now. His stomach turned.

A door creaked down the hall and America’s gaze swiveled to look, squinting in the dim candlelight. It was the other colony, New France, Canada, already in his nightshirt. America made a face out of principle, then realized—

“Hey!” he whispered, scrambling to his feet. He ran down the hall as quiet as he could manage, missing the way the other boy shrank back at his approach. “Hey, do you speak English?”

The colony looked him over. “Ah, a little?”

“ _Good_ , I need your help.” He grabbed Canada’s hand and dragged him to the door, hushing the start of a protest before they got there. He turned to face him, expression serious. “I need you to tell me what they’re saying.”

“What? Who?”

America jerked his head towards the closed door. “France and Russia, who else?”

“I, don’t think that is a good—” Canada fidgeted, and America cut him off.

“ _Please_ , I need to know what they’re planning,” he pleaded in a hushed whisper. France hadn’t told him anything when he had been brought to the inn earlier, just sent him to his room and said they’d chat later. In hindsight, telling the frog that he was a horrible person and would rot in hell probably didn’t help foster a kindly disposition in the older nation. “I don’t know where England is, I don’t know what they’re going to do—please tell me what they’re saying.”

Canada’s violet eyes flicked from the door to him and back again. “I… will tell you.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” he gushed, nudging the boy closer to the door. “Go on; what’re they saying?”

Canada frowned but pressed his ear against the door, listening. America held his breath.

“… They are, talking about the treaty. Papa says… Angleterre will sign it, when Papa and Russie write the last part,” Canada said, eyes unfocused as he translated.

“What last part—?”

Canada held up a finger.

America bit his lip, listening to the muffled French. He could distinguish between the two nations by ear alone: France’s voice, smooth and higher; another voice, deep and low, who could only be Russia.

England had told him about both of them. France was a lying coward, a _Catholic_ , full of flattery and sin and petty affronts. He had ranted at length about the Frenchman, pacing with sharp steps through the room, but all England would share about Russia was that the cold nation was hardly civilized, childishly cruel, and not safe. Or sane.

A sprinkling of light laughter from behind the door dragged his attention back. America shot a questioning look to Canada.

“They are talking about… spi- split-ting? Dividing? the colonies,” he summarized.

_“What?”_

“Papa says perhaps he should take, the colonies north of Maryland… And Russie, can have the colonies in the south,” Canada elaborated.

An image of the devil disguised as France cutting him in half flashed through America’s mind. He shook his head. “They can’t,” he whispered.

“Russie doesn’t like that idea. He says that—” Canada’s eyes widened, mouth open a beat before continuing, “—that you are not the only colony they are discussing.”

America blinked. “You?”

Canada didn’t answer, face pale in the flickering light. The room had gone quiet. Then France spoke, tone polite and cool.

“Papa says I have nothing to do with this,” Canada breathed, relief evident. A pause. “He says, only Angleterre’s colonies are in question. …Because they fighted Angleterre together, the re- re-com-pense—”

Russia interrupted, cutting off both France and the clandestine transmission. The French colony hesitated, then whispered into the abrupt silence. “Russie says… Papa would lose, without him.”

A short sentence from France, tone nonchalant. Russia continued. America tried to picture it, France lounging on a sitting room sofa in his silk and high finery, while across from him sat the other nation, wrapped in a coarse fur, with a bushy beard and beady eyes.

Canada continued to whisper. “He says without his help, Papa would have lost me… Russie has no colonies to defend here, his assistance, was like an expensive favour. He would accept, me or you. Papa can decide…” The French colony looked at him, fear splashed across his face like ink. “I don’t want to leave Papa.

“I don’t want to go with either of them!” America hissed. Canada signaled for him to be quieter. America clamped his mouth shut, throat tight.

The room was silent. Then France answered, a careful reply. “Papa is sad, that they could not, ah… I don’t know how to say this in English,” Canada confessed, glancing at America.

“Try?”

But Russia replied, short and blunt, prompting Canada to translate. “He says he does not care, if Angleterre does not like the treaty. He has no choice.”

America clenched his fists. France had _lost_ the French and Indian War, England had been writing the treaty when Russia decided to send soldiers to Quebec. He restarted the whole thing! He had no business getting involved.

France sighed; both colonies strained to hear him. “Papa says _he_ doesn’t have a choice. Giving—giving me to Russie is out of the question,” Canada said in a rush. France said something further, and Russia gave a short affirmative.

America waited, watching Canada’s gaze sink to the floor. He prompted, “Well?”

Canada twisted his hands. “Ah. Papa said, that Russie can have you.”

America felt his breath leave in a shaky little gust. “No. No, he can’t _have_ me,” he said, voice rising. He ignored Canada’s furtive gestures. “I’m not Russian- I’m not going to _be_ Russian, I’m _British_ —”

_“Canada, mon cher, es-tu là?”_

Both colonies froze. America saw guilt flash across Canada’s face and shook his own head furiously. But Canada opened his mouth; America clamped a hand over it-

The door opened, light spilling into the hall around the edges of the tallest person America had ever seen in his life. The broad-shouldered man took up the entire space of the door, he was taller than the door frame. America heard Canada squeak in fear next to him; he stepped in front of the other without thinking, heart pounding.

The giant snorted, his face hidden in shadows. He commented in French before stepping aside to reveal the rest of the room. France sat on the edge of the sofa, peering around the other man, and Canada ran for him, leaving America alone in the hall.

He could see the man’s face now: young, for an adult, round with a large nose that hinted at a past crunch, pale clean-shaven skin. A long, wide scarf hid his neck and mouth, the tails draped over his shoulders. Their eyes met—his were unreadable—and America bolted for the stairs.

He made it only a half dozen steps before a hand land solidly on the nape of his neck. The nation hauled him back, gripping his shirt collar; America shouted, twisting in the hold as the man pulled him down the hall to the room.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, the man released him and America backed away, eyes darting from him to France.

France smiled at him over Canada’s head, pulling back from their hug. “Russie, this is Alfred.”

The huge nation nodded. “Pleased to meet you.” The first word sounded like ‘pleest’.

America glared at him, then France. They were in civilian clothes the both of them, frock coats and waistcoats and breeches, which wasn’t nearly as unnerving as a uniform. “I’m not going to be Russian.”

“Well! Aren’t you full of manners,” France exclaimed, smiling. “I wonder how you came to hear that news, given that I’m certain Angleterre never taught you French.” He glanced, still smiling, at Canada as he spoke, and the colony flushed red. France chuckled and tucked Canada next to him on the sofa.

“It doesn’t matter, it’s not going to happen,” America declared.

“Why do you come sit down and we’ll have a civilized conversation, shall we?” France gestured to the opposite sofa, which Russia was already ambling towards.

America didn’t move. “I’ll stand.”

“If you’d rather converse like a servant at the door, I won’t stop you,” France shrugged.

America scowled and stormed over to the sofa, perching on the edge farthest from Russia. He didn’t look at him. “I’m not going to be Russian,” he repeated.

“I said civilized conversation, America,” France stated, a hint of annoyance dripping into his voice. “Let’s try again. How was your evening?”

“You know bloody well how my evening was,” America snapped. He wasn’t going to sit here and pretend everything was fine, not with some conquering bastard and his heathen side-kick. Not after hearing them blithely discuss who got to keep him, like he was some spoil of war they could divide at will.

“Oh but you are Angleterre’s colony,” the Frenchman mused, repressing a grin.

America’s hands curled into fists in his lap. “I live to serve His Majesty.”

“You also sound like a parrot,” France sighed. “How is your room here? Is it to your liking?”

“When can I go home?” He hadn’t been there in three days, since France had appeared with a small retinue of soldiers and ‘escorted’ him to Boston.

“You did not answer my question,” France pointed out.

“It’s fine. When can I go home?” Home was a little house in Menotomy, one England had ordered built for him, and where England stayed during visits when he wasn’t busy.

France leaned back in his seat. “I think it would be best for you to remain here for a few days.”

Russia spoke up, asking something in French. France replied, and America scowled. “Stop doing that. It’s rude.”

“Perhaps you should learn French then,” France said, and continued over America’s disgusted expression. “Just explaining to Russie. He doesn’t speak much English, though he’s learning quickly. He was conversational in French in only, what was it, a little more than six months?” France smiled at Russia, who stared at him blankly, before turning his attention back to America. “I’m sure you’ll get it sorted soon.”

“I’m not learning French.” America crossed his arms, wedging his hands flat against his sides as if to ward off a chill.

“Mmhm. Well!” France sat forward, clapping his hands together. Next to him, Canada jumped. “There is still much Russie and I need to discuss, and it is getting late. Time for all good little colonies to go to sleep, _oui_?” He pulled Canada into his lap and kissed his hair. “ _Bonne nuit_ , Canada.”

“ _Bonne nuit_ , Papa,” Canada kissed his cheek before hopping off his lap, glancing at Russia shyly. “ _Bonne nuit_ , _Monsieur_ Russie.”

America watched as Canada left through a different door, vanishing into an attached bedroom. France looked at him. “ _Bonne nuit_ , America; good night.”

He made a face and stood, ignoring the Russian-accented ‘good night’ as he reached the door.

“Ah, America, wait.”

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “What?”

“Say good night,” France said.

America took to the opportunity with his back to them to sneer, before spitting “Good night.” He left, slamming the door shut behind him.

—

“Such a rude child,” France scoffed once the colonies were gone. “Unsurprising, given all he’s had to learn from.” He stood and went to a dressing table along the wall, pouring two glasses of bourbon from the decanter. He returned, offering one to the other nation; Russia took it with a nod of thanks.

“England’s manners are not the best,” Russia agreed as France took his seat again. “I can only imagine what he’s told the boy of you.”

“Oh all sorts of terrible things, I’m sure,” France said, crossing his legs and taking a sip. “You’ll teach him better.”

“If you do not do terrible things, I will have no terrible things to tell him,” Russia returned.

France hummed. “I worry he won’t become any less blunt under your care.”

Russia hid a faint smile in his glass. “I am the very picture of tact.”

Another hum, and a pause they filled with bourbon. Then France asked, “Do you think you’re ready, Russie?”

He glanced up. “Pardon?”

France watched him from over the lip of his glass. “Do you think you’re ready to raise a child?”

Russia’s gaze drifted to the polished table. “It’s not really a question of ready, is it… I have him, so I will raise him.”

“Yes, most parents find themselves in that position, or so I understand,” France grinned. “Though it is a bit different with our kind. We never come into a child ourselves; we only ever find them, or acquire them. Adoption, one could say.”

“It’s not adoption; the parent is not dead.”

France’s shoulder rose and dropped an inch. “Does it matter?”

Of course it mattered. There would always be someone to return to, a reason not to learn new ways. Russia shrugged, and took a gulp.

France frowned at that, but didn’t comment. He swirled his bourbon, then offered, “’Tisn’t so difficult to raise a child. If you don’t _want_ to-”

“I will raise him,” Russia cut off that train of thought before it could progress further.

France stared; his tone dropped, musing. “A very fortunate end to this war for you, isn’t it? A bit unexpected…”

Russia kept his expression carefully neutral as he took another sip, proper manners this time. The conclusion was unexpected only to one of them.

“You’ll have to make arrangements for his education, of course,” France declared, letting the moment pass. “And you mustn’t let him get away with mischief; it will only spawn greater disobedience when he’s older. My Canada is an angel, but I can see that America will be a little terror if you let him—”

“I will manage well,” Russia interrupted, the stream of advice grating. “He will be fine.”

“I know, Russie, don’t sound so cross,” France dismissed with a wave of his glass. “I only want to make sure you have a good role model for these things, given what I have heard of your own upbringing—”

“Kiev was an excellent father,” Russia countered, tone sharper than it sounded in his head.

France heaved a sigh, eyes rolling. “I wasn’t thinking of _Kiev_ , cher—”

There was a sharp **crack** as Russia clacked his glass down harder than intended. The remains of his bourbon leaked onto the wood finish, dark red on mahogany. He plucked a kerchief from his coat pocket and slid it under the ruined glass before he stood. “I’m going for a walk,” he announced in the stillness.

“If you must, Russie; it’s so chilly here,” France said softly.

It was early April, but the snows had already melted. There were flowers blooming. Russia stared a moment, then left, shutting the door behind him.

—

America paced, quick footsteps from one side of the room to the other. His thoughts raced ahead of him, careening off the walls of his mind as America tried to make sense of everything he had just learned.

They wanted him to be a Russian colony. They wanted him to serve the Russian monarchy and denounce His Majesty and learn French—

They were going to write it into the treaty; they expected England would sign such a thing. He was the price of peace, England would never- He wouldn’t sign it. They said he had no choice but he could refuse, couldn’t he? Once he learned what France and Russia were planning, he’d refuse, he’d fight for him.

God, he wished England was there. England would set them straight. America hadn’t seen him in over two weeks—nothing, compared to the months England was away but with so much going on it felt like years. He had appeared at the house out of the blue just after dinner, alone and exhausted, and right away America had known that Something Was Wrong. England looked too agitated, too lost in thought; America vibrated like a plucked string. They sat down with a pot of tea on the table and England broke the news to him of the war, matter-of-fact like a proper soldier, gentleman to gentleman. America struggled to swallow through the tightness in his throat and tried to act like the grown-up England expected him to be, listening in silence until England finished. Then he asked, “What happens now?”

England had cried. England had pulled America into his lap and held him, all stillness and unspoken words, lips pressed into America’s hair as his shoulders hitched once, twice. America had never seen him cry, ever. England had always told him, keep a stiff upper lip, come now don’t cry, you’re fine. It scared him more than the war had, more than the news of approaching French and Russian troops, the battles and skirmishes that claimed the lives of his people like pinpricks in his heart. England held him tight, head bowed, half singing, half whispering a lullaby into his hair. America fell asleep like that, curled up in England’s arms as he murmured of happy summers fading and a dark, moody winter, a fairytale to keep him warm and safe…

When England left the next morning to meet with his generals, he seemed even more exhausted than the night before. He told America to stay home and stay safe. Soon, he said; he would be back soon.

America waited, and England didn’t return, and then France appeared with his soldiers.

Had England known? Had he known when he left, that France would steal America away to Boston? That France and Russia were planning to take him away from England?

He had to get back to the house. England expected him to be there. What if- what if England had already come and gone? No, it had only been three days. He would find someone riding north out of the city and convince them to bring him along. He could leave now, before France fully got a hold of the surrounding towns—

Should he bring the rucksack from the house, a change of clothes inside? No, too suspicious, and he would have supplies at the house. America hurried to the door and cracked it open, peering down the hall. Empty, with only a bit of muted light leaking out from under the door to France’s room. Emboldened, he stole quietly down the hall to the stairs, avoiding all the creaky boards. He knew this inn, unluckily for France.

The guard remained stationed at the base of the stairs. America took a breath and walked past, head high, nothing remotely strange about him—

_“Attendez! Où alles-tu?”_

His heart leaped to his throat as he turned back. “I need to go to the necessary.”

The guard frowned. “You are going, where?”

America barely understood him. “To the necessary. I’m just going to the necessary.”

The guard’s frown shifted as understanding dawned and he waved America on.

America waited until he was outside before he let himself breathe. God, almost there. He’d just go around back to the necessary and find that loose bit of planking in the fence. Once he got to the alley he’d be fine-

He rounded the corner of the darkened courtyard and froze, choking back a cry of dismay. Russia stood between him and the fence, focus tilted skyward. America took a step back and gravel crunched underfoot.

Russia’s head swiveled in his direction, tilted. “Amerika? Vy yuarr oatsied?”

America blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Russia cleared his throat, tried again. “Vhy you are outside?”

France hadn’t been lying about Russia’s English. “I’m going to the necessary, that’s all.”

“To vhat?”

“To the necessary.” Blank silence, and he tried, cringing at the crassness, “To the toilet.”

“Ah.” Russia looked back up at the night sky, and America stood there a moment. Guess he’d better follow through. He skirted around behind Russia and shut himself in the small structure, peeping through a crack in the wood. Once Russia went in, he’d duck through the fence.

The minute stretched by, and Russia didn’t move. He couldn’t somehow know what America was planning, could he?

Russia glanced at the outhouse. “You falled?” he called out, the hint of a laugh in his voice.

America gritted his teeth and banged the door open, crossing the courtyard again. He paused at the corner, watching Russia stare statue-still at the sky again. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Stars arr… funny herr. Dey luuk funny,” he answered, gesturing, not looking at him. “Dey arr not, eh… in right playsis.”

America glanced up, then back to the other nation. “Are you drunk?”

Russia’s laugh sounded like a short bark. “No.”

Mmhmm… America glanced at the fence, hesitated, then turned back to the inn, defeated.

In his room he paced again. He had been so close. If Russia hadn’t been there, he’d be half way out of the city by now! And he couldn’t use the same excuse to get past the guard now. He felt like a character in a fairytale, trapped in a tower—

He stopped, eyes darting to the window. Five minutes later, all of his bed sheets were knotted together in a long rope, one end tied securely to the bed post. This would work. England had taught him how to tie proper knots ages ago, made him practice until he could tie them without looking. He slid the wooden window shutters aside as gently as possible, swung his legs over the sill, and took a breath, tossing the sheet rope down.

No cries of alarm from downstairs. Another breath, and he gripped the sheets tightly, easing himself off the sill. Everything held. A sigh of relief slipped out, and he started to shimmy down as quickly as he could without getting tangled up and falling. Two feet down, then another; he was nearly level with the ground floor window, he’d have to get past it fast, before anyone saw—

He dropped down below another knot, and heard the terrifying sound of cloth ripping—America shrieked as he plummeted the last ten feet and landed in the bushes with a solid **crunch** in his ankle.

He clapped his hands over his mouth to muffle a scream. Nausea spiked; he sucked down shallow breathes, hoping to steady his stomach. His ankle burned.

He had to move. Someone must’ve heard that, the guards would be there any minute. He hauled himself upright, biting back a cry of pain as he tested his ankle. No good, he had to move, had to get out of there. Abandoning the ripped sheet in the bushes, he hobbled straight to the fence, a short span of twenty feet that felt like a mile, and collapsed against it, heart racing. He made his shaky way down the fence in a half-crouch until he found the loose board and wedged it aside, tumbling through to the back alley. He remembered at the last second to set the board back.

He paused, took a moment to breathe. Okay, he was out of the inn. No way he’d be able to move fast enough to find a ride out of town, not with his spectacular failure of an exit. He tried his ankle again, hoping—no chance. Right, so what did he do now?

Find a place to hide. Get as far from the inn as possible and hide, maybe wrap his ankle, and find a ride out. Maybe stow away in a merchant’s wagon. Okay, he could do this. America stood, wobbled, and made his way along the alley wall, eyes fixed on the end of the block, ears straining for cries of discovery. The brick walls were rough under his hands; he tried to focus on that, and not the throbbing pain in his ankle. He reached the street, glanced furtively back towards the inn—no guards in sight—and crossed as fast as he could into the next alley.

He made it three alleys that way before he sank to the ground, wiping sweat off his face with a trembling hand. His ankle felt unbearable; he wasn’t going any farther. He needed a place to hide now.

America gave himself what felt like far too long to regain his composure, then pulled himself back up and tried the nearest back door in the alley. Locked, as was the next one, but the third one hadn’t caught all the way and he opened the door to a storage room stacked high with boxes. He limped in, found a small crawlspace among the crates, and settled down in the darkness. He rested his head against the wall and panted, exhausted, wincing every time he shifted his ankle. This was not how fairytales went…

Despite the dark and the pain, he fell into uneasy sleep, wishing England were there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you worried that I'm going to write out Russia's accent in English, have no fear--his English will improve rapidly.


	2. Capture and Confinement

America jolted awake as a door creaked open, filling the storage room with early morning light. He curled further into his hiding place among the crates, choking on a whimper as his ankle dinked against the wood floor, and listened.

“—closed all the roads over-night; no one’s allowed out of the city.”

“Good Lord. And now they’re searching, you say?”

“Yessir, building by building. The streets are crawling with soldiers. They’re demanding entry in the name of the Russian empress.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do them. What are they searching for, a weapon’s cache?” A grunt as something heavy was lifted.

“No, a young boy by the sound of it.”

“What the blazes do they want with a boy?”

“Haven’t the foggiest—”

The door swung shut and plunged the room into darkness again.

Oh god. He’d waited too long. He’d waited too long and now they’d shut down the city. How the hell was he supposed to get to his house in Menotomy? America sat up a little straighter and cautiously felt his ankle, fingertips brushing over his stocking. Swollen. Hugely swollen, and even the softest touch sent pain lancing up his leg. He wasn’t sure walking was possible at all now, and a quick test proved him correct.

They were searching building by building. He needed a better hiding place. He’d never find one in time, not when he couldn’t walk. Maybe a tinier nook in the storage room?

He pulled himself back up, gripping the crates for support as he hopped blindly in the dark, with only a sliver of light from the storefront trickling back. The slow going had the one good result of forcing him to be quiet. When a floor board creaked, he froze, but nothing happened. He just needed to find a better spot. He could wait them out. Once the soldiers were gone, he’d go to the shopkeeper; he’d help him get to Menotomy, perhaps farther.

His spirits drifted lower as his inspection of the room revealed no clever nooks where a young boy could conceivably hide. That’s not how this was supposed to happen. The brave hero in the fairytale didn’t explore the dungeon only to discover there was no way out—there was always a loose stone or secret passageway.

America found a narrow space between the wall and a box and squeezed himself into it. It was no better than his last spot, but hobbling back to the first one was out of the question. He thunked his head back and closed his eyes, worn out from even that small effort.

Distantly he could hear sounds of people filtering in and out of the shop. Boston was starting to wake up now. He wondered how far away the soldiers were, how thorough a search they were performing. It was… a little scary to hear how strongly Russia and France reacted to his disappearance. Shutting down the entire city? So he couldn’t get away? Though if he were being honest, it made him feel a bit important. Cities didn’t get shut down over nobodies. Important officials though, or nobles.

Or criminals, sometimes. What if… what if Russia and France expected him to be on their side already? Did that mean, they thought he was defecting? Or that he was a traitor to them? His heart beat faster. Defectors got executed, so did traitors. But, they couldn’t possibly think—

They were searching the city with soldiers. Like they were hunting down an enemy of war. France and Russia, two nations with no qualms about killing his people--who _had_ killed god only knew how many of his people--were scouring the city for him. When they found him… He didn’t know. Would they hang him? His shoulders hunched. He remembered Salem, how the bodies had jerked and twitched before falling still at the end of their ropes. Maybe they’d shoot him like a soldier, like a defector. America had never been shot before. He could picture it, getting blind-folded and led out to a field, waiting for the clap of thunder and death. He had asked England once, what it felt like, and the sea-faring soldier had said it was like getting stuck with a branding iron, only the burning didn’t stop, just settled into the flesh like a smouldering ember to rot away muscle and bone and—

The shop had gone quiet.

America strained his ears, heard snippets of French, and covered his mouth with his hands to muffle a squeak of terror. Oh my god, they were here, they’d find him—

The door swung open; America shrank deeper into the shadows of his spot, heart pounding. Footsteps, the soft click of a boot heel on wood, as someone entered. America didn’t dare look, didn’t dare do anything save curl up as tight as he could, hands pressed over his mouth, trying to breathe silently as his heartbeat attempted to deafen him. He’d be okay, they wouldn’t find him, they _couldn’t_ find him, or they’d kill him, drag him out into the streets and shoot him for deserting—

When a hand landed on his shoulder, he shot forward like an arrow from a bow, momentum carrying him a full two steps before he crashed to the ground, howling as agony spiked through his ankle. Strong hands seized his shoulders and pulled him up—he almost collapsed again as he tried to regain his balance on his bad leg—and then his feet left the ground completely as his captor lifted him, struggling, into the air.

“Hold _steel_ —”

 _Russia_ , voice tinged with annoyance. “Let me go!” America shouted, twisting the nation’s grip. Russia readjusted his hold, an arm wrapped solidly around America’s waist as the taller man hauled him out of the storage room.

America caught a glimpse of the shopkeeper standing by the counter, shock splashed across his face, and screamed, “Help me! Please help me, he’s going to kill me!” The man jerked forward, but Russia hustled them outside before the shopkeeper could cut off his path.

Russian soldiers kept the small crowd back when they reached the street. The shopkeeper followed him out; America could hear him demanding to know what was going on, why they were hunting down a _child_ —

Russia’s voice came out strained as he fought to keep his grip. “He runned avay; I am hees guardian—”

America lunged, straining. “He’s lying! He’s—”

Russia clamped a hand over his mouth—America let out a muffled shout—and barked a handful of orders in French. Cold fear froze America’s stomach and he sank his teeth into Russia’s hand. The man swore, not French this time, wrenching his hand away. Some of the standing soldiers began shooing the crowd away, muskets loose in their hands, while another led over a waiting horse.

America kicked wildly and felt a surge of vicious triumph when one collided with Russia’s knee. He grunted, his grip slipping a fraction; hope raced through the colony’s mind as his good foot touched the ground, but then Russia heaved him up again, shifting him to his other arm as he grabbed the saddle and swung them both up. America’s ankle banged into the horse and he shrieked.

“ _Stop zat_ ,” Russia snarled, dragging America to sit in front of him. America whimpered as his ankle was jarred again, tried to lean forward away from Russia and was yanked back flush against the other’s torso, a strong arm wrapped securely across his chest.

Two more orders in French, then Russia kicked his horse into a burst of a gallop, the remaining crowd scattering; America yelped as the movement jostled his ankle. Once they cleared the crowd Russia dropped to a trot, and aimed them back towards the inn.

\---

France straightened from where he was half draped over the banister, chatting with a blushing inn maid. “Oh you _found_ him! How’d it go?” he exclaimed with a grin, watching Russia enter with America slung over his shoulder like a sack. Attention broken, the maid fled back to the kitchen.

Russia shot him a dark look as he went passed and up the stairs; he heard France follow. He kicked open the door to the parlour and plunked America on the sofa, leaving his hands on the boy’s shoulders for a moment as if willing him to just, stay there, please. America looked at him warily and didn’t move. Russia straightened and went to the dressing table, pouring himself a shot of bourbon.

France walked in as Russia took the second one. “That well, hm?”

Russia didn’t answer, setting the glass down and willing the tremor in his hands to stop. He could feel the warmth of the alcohol settle into his stomach and imagined it seeping through the rest of him. Crowds. Crowds and screaming and out-numbered. He let out a slow breath and tried to get his shoulders to loosen.

When he turned back, both France and America were staring at him.

“It’s not even eight yet, you realize,” France noted.

Russia didn’t dignify that with a response, walking over to America and crouching. The colony shrank back on sofa, eying him. What, no fiery retorts this time? Russia’s brow furrowed, and he moved slowly, gently pulling the boy’s leg towards him. The boy’s ankle was swollen to the size of an orange, and when he ghosted his fingers over the ruined stocking America hissed and tried to jerk his leg free.

“I think it’s broken,” he murmured, standing. “Or at least sprained.”

“I’m not surprised,” France said, taking a seat opposite America. “He fell ten feet out a window.” Then, in English. “ _You’re lucky it wasn’t your neck, you know._ ” America scowled, but didn’t respond.

“Watch him for a minute,” Russia instructed. France gave him a flat look; where did he expect America to go on a broken ankle? Russia snorted and left.

In the green span in front of the inn, between the carriage path and the cobblestone road, he found _podorozhnik_ growing among the grass. Not fully grown, but the immature leaves better than nothing at all. Everything grew so early here; back home, he’d be out of luck until mid-May at best. He plucked a handful, went to the inn’s kitchen for a mortar and pestle (“I veel breeng to yu, layter.”), and retrieved clean bandages from his room.

Supplies in hand, he nudged the door to the parlor open with his hip, catching the tail of a conversation in English. “ _—so I wouldn’t recommend that sort of thing, unless you want to invite your own Harrying—_ oh, what do you have there?”

Russia took in the room—France’s tone and pleasant attitude, the way America was curled up even further on the sofa, blue eyes wide—and frowned. “Whatever you’re telling him, stop.”

France pursed his lips as Russia came over and set his things down on the low table between sofas. “I was only recalling the time I took over Angleterre with William; how he managed to escape back to his people and promptly spent the next few months inciting rebellions until I torched most of the Northlands and forced him to surrender again.”

Russia stared. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Oh, also he thinks you’re going to kill him,” France added, nodding towards America, still watching them with nervous eyes.

“So you told him about the _Harrying of the North?_ ” Russia hissed. The older nation shrugged.

Russia shook his head as he turned away from France, sitting on the edge of the table; there was a huff of disapproval from behind him. He met America’s gaze. “I am not, eh… I veel not keell you,” he said, disliking the simplicity of his English.

America’s shoulders dropped a fraction but his eyes remained guarded. Russia couldn’t blame him. He started tearing the _podorozhnik_ into tiny pieces, dropping them into the mortar. He felt America watching as he ground the leaves to a paste, felt France peer over his shoulder.

“Goose-grass?”

“If that’s what it’s called in French.”

“Mm. Well, now that you’ve finished spooking the populace with your search, I’m going to take Canada out. We’ll be back for dinner.”

Russia hummed his reply, focused on the herbs as France left. The Harrying of the North, he couldn’t believe France did that. Was he trying to scare America into not running again? Or warn him against supporting rebellions? He wondered if France expected a rebellion. America had been raised by England up til then.

When the herbs were an acceptable consistency, he set the mortar aside and eased off America’s shoe, then peeled off the stocking. He saw the boy bite his lip out of the corner of his eye.

He sighed, “I’m sorry,” and smearing the paste over the swelling.

America tensed from his head to his feet, a sharp exhale escaping him. Russia worked quickly, wrapping the paste against bare skin with several passes of bandage, tucking the tail into the rest. He looked up when he finished, and found America blinking back tears.

“Hou eet feels?”

“It hurts,” America said, jaw unmoving. He didn’t cry.

Russia nodded and stood, hooking his hands under America’s arms to lift him, settling him on his hip. America arched back as far as he could, glaring, and said something about indignant about walking.

“You vahk layter,” Russia replied, carrying him to his room. He’d find him a crutch or a cane, but for now perhaps it was best he couldn’t walk. No risk of attempted escapes, at least not until he healed.

Russia set America down on the edge of the bed. “I’ll have breakfast sent up,” he said in French. The colony’s face twist into a sneer as he looked away, glowering.

Russia called a maid and asked for two breakfasts, one to each, then retreated to his room. It was barely nine in the morning and he felt exhausted. Probably because he spent the night receiving reports from the guards stationed on the roads, that no boy matching America’s description was found trying to leave the city. When the sky began to lighten, he had given the search orders and went out himself.

Breakfast arrived, eggs and porridge, toasted bread with butter and jam, so unlike breakfast at home, or with France. Only the tea was the same. He stripped out of his uniform coat and sat at his desk, rereading previous letters from Her Majesty, nibbling his toast as an after-thought.

_… Reconciling France and England is of utmost importance to the future stability of Europe, and thus Our security as well. With war against Prussia concluded in Our favor, and Fredrick’s power satisfactorily reduced to that of a Prince-Elect, We may now dedicate Ourselves fully to this task…_  
_… Given the extent of Our present involvement, We should seek to limit English control and influence in North America, as such power is even now widely spread through the reaches of the world..._  
_… As We shall evidently be the principle reason for any French victory in North America, We are thus granted the opportunity to fulfill the dearest wish of Our late Majesty, Peter: the acquisition of a warm-water port, and the expansion of the Imperial Navy into a truly modern and world-reaching fleet. With this, We shall position Ourselves to more fully participate in matters of commerce, culture, science, and war, if necessary…_  
_… Thus We instruct Our most humble servant, at the closing of this distant and costly war, to procure, within the bounds of reasonable negotiation, with the gratitude of Our French allies, colonies on the North American continent, by which We may then wholly integrate Ourselves into the political, social, and economic fabric of Europe, and from there even unto the far-flung corners of the earth, God willing…_

He couldn’t say much for reconciling France and England in any permanent sense; that was the work of a lifetime. But the rest… More than her stunning additions of churches and palaces, Elizaveta’s crowning glory in her reign would be this, a warm-water port. Dozens of warm-water ports, the American coast was littered with them. Granted, they were half-way around the world, but it was an amazing start. It changed everything.

Elizaveta would see that. Warm-water ports, an expanded fur trade. Once he gave a proper report about what else was here, that list would grow. He wondered what her reaction would be when he introduced America. She loved children, loved spoiling them, though this seemed to have backfired with her nephew and adopted heir. No fault of hers though, the boy hated everything Russian.

Russia sat a moment, then pulled out a clean sheet of paper and began to write, quill scratching in the quiet of the room.

_Your Imperial Majesty, Elizaveta Petrovna, Empress and Autocrat of All the Russias,_  
_Lizochka,_  
_I can now safely report to Your Majesty that We shall indeed have Our warm-water port, and many more besides. ‘Tis a beautiful and differing land, of what I have seen, and the people determined and stubborn._  
_Of chief interest to me presently is the young boy of my kind who lives in these thirteen colonies, and for whom I am now responsible. I admit that the thought occurred to me when first I received word of Your Majesty’s desire to gain a territory in North America, and achieve the goal for which Your Majesty’s father, God rest his soul, strove all his life, that gaining lands on this continent might mean for myself a greater challenge beyond the call of war; yet the full ramifications of such a victory are only now making themselves known to me…_

\---

America drank his tea and picked at the rest of his breakfast. He wanted to pace, to put the restless energy coursing under his skin to some purpose, and could hardly stand. Russia didn’t get him a crutch; America wondered if the man wanted him to go insane.

He didn’t know what his next step was. Didn’t know what it could be, with his ankle broken. Any chance of reaching Menotomy slipped away when Russia’s grip had closed on him in the shop. The only way England would get to him now was through France and Russia—would they even allow it?

But what to do _now?_ What could he do to help England? He didn’t know where the Englishman was, so he couldn’t write him letters. Besides, France would probably read all his mail anyways, the arse. God, did he really have to wait until his ankle healed before he could be of any use?

He tried to pace. It didn’t work. He laid on the floor and pounded his fists into the boards. He rolled back and forth cursing France with every insult he had ever heard England fling at the frog on the rare occasion America witnessed him drunk, red coat draped over his shoulders and his feathered tricorner hooked off the back of his chair.

England told the most fantastic stories then, not fairytales, but things that actually happened—skirmishes and political maneuvering and pitched naval battles. He pulled America into his lap and whispered sea secrets and wisdom with a lop-sided grin, the hint of rum the gauge by which America determined how daring a question he could ask. When the night grew long enough that he couldn’t stop yawning, England would snag a guttering candle and carry him off to bed, tucking him under the covers with a long kiss on his forehead, “Good night, my boy.”

The rolling stopped. America buried his face in his arms, trembling, staring as the floor blurred and dissolved. He pressed his mouth against his arm to muffle the sound. He cried for himself, for his hurt ankle and wounded pride, his fear and loneliness and uncertainty. He cried because he missed England, because he didn’t know what was going to happen to either of them. He cried until the exhaustion and terror of the last two days finally sank into his bones and pulled him down into sleep.

That was how the serving maid saw him when she brought up lunch: lying face down on the floor, napping. America apologized profusely, beet red, and she gave him a sympathetic smile before she left.

Once the mortification wore off, he nibbled at his food—fish and potatoes, a bit of bread—and heard France’s carriage rattle out of the inn yard. This was like one big holiday to him, wasn’t it?

America dreamt up ways he could get back at France. Put horse dung in his shoes. Hide mice in his clothes trunk. Spit in his food. It was a distraction from the low hum in America’s mind, the repetitive question clattering around his skull like a carriage wheel: what can he do, what can he do, what can he do?

—

The carriage clacked up the rise known to the locals as Beacon Hill. Russia peered out the window as they approached the brick manor, its dark windows shaded by surrounding trees. The whole property—manor, orchard, respectable amounts of farmland—overlooked the large pasture in the center of the city, where various farmers grazed their cows. Hancock Manor was simultaneously in the midst of everything, and completely isolated.

He sat back in his seat as the carriage was waved through the gate by a mixed contingent of French and Russian guards. There were more stationed by the front door, and probably around back by the servant’s entrance. A small unit of men worked to repair part of the wooden fence that had been destroyed during the capture of Boston. Some of the French got a little too excited about taking a British city. A few broken fences was not bad in the grand scheme of things, but France had been furious.

Russia glanced at said nation seated across from him. “Did you send word we were coming?”

“No,” France replied with a smile. He was in full military dress, as was Russia, their uniforms trimmed in gold to signal their ranks as officers. It was a formality only; there would be no confusion of position in this meeting.

Russia shook his head as the carriage eased to a halt. France grabbed the leather satchel from the seat next to him as they exited, returning salutes and doffing their hats as they were admitted.

John Hancock and Mrs. Hancock greeted them in the foyer with a bow and a curtsy, a short line of house staff behind them mirroring the gesture. The nations bowed in return, and France lightly kissed the back of Mrs. Hancock’s hand.

“My apologies for the lackluster welcome, Your Grace,” Hancock was saying, eyes fixed on the exchange. His French carried the sharp edge of a colonial English accent. “I did not receive word of your visit until very late.”

Russia noted the way the Hancocks’ wigs were slightly askew and how rigidly they held themselves, and guessed that ‘very late’ meant something in the realm of ‘ten minutes prior’.

France dismissed this was an airy wave. “All is forgiven. Where is Lord Kirkland?”

“I believe His Lordship is in his room still—”

“Well that won’t do!” France interrupted, smiling. “Send someone to fetch him, would you, Madam Hancock? And Monsieur, if I could impose upon you the use of your office, I would be deeply grateful.”

Both Hancocks froze, wrestling with their pride; Mrs. Hancock fought down a shame-faced blush. Russia pushed away his own discomfort as Mr. Hancock nodded.

“Of course, Your Grace; I would be honoured.” His hand met his wife’s for a reassuring instant, before he escorted them to the private room, directing their attention to the bell pull should they need anything further.

“Thank you, monsieur. Please send Lord Kirkland here once he appears,” France replied.

Another stiff nod, and the doors shut. Russia looked to France.

“I thought they’d die from pure shame, you ordering them about in front of their staff.”

France barked a laugh, setting his satchel down on the mahogany desk. “John Hancock is a smuggler, not a noble. He’d do well to remember who his betters are.”

France rolled open a large scroll of parchment, smoothing down the edges with paperweights. Russia came around the desk, eyes meandering down the length of the treaty. There, Article 7: ‘ _Concerning the Thirteen British Colonies on the North American Continent…_ ’

“He’s going to be furious,” he murmured, running his finger along the provision.

France shrugged, but before he could answer the doors opened.

England entered, shoulders rigid, chin up. He must’ve long before managed the art of making one’s self presentable on short notice, because the cut of his red coat hung squarely across his shoulders without a single wrinkle. Dark circles rimmed his eyes; Russia couldn’t tell if it was the visible cost of losing a war, or the stress of the whole situation.

France held a precise smile; his eyes glittered. “ _Bonjour_ , Angleterre. I take it your accommodations are to your liking?” he asked in French.

England glanced over Russia from boot to epaulet, then gave his attention to France. “As pleasant as house arrest ever is,” he answered dryly.

France arched a brow. England glared for several seconds before he repeated himself in French, adding sharply, “What do you want?”

The corner of France’s lips quirked up. “We’ve brought the treaty for your signature,” he said, gesturing widely to the parchment on the desk.

England grimaced and walked over, brushing past France as if he weren’t there. France rolled his eyes. England braced his hands on the desk as he read, silently taking in the insults spelled out by the terms. Admission of fault, flowery apologies that none of them meant, reparations… Russia caught France’s eye as England read lower; France gave a small nod.

England’s brow furrowed, eyes flicking back over the words as his lips parted; he shook his head minutely, then straightened.

“No,” he said simply, looking straight at France. “No, that is unacceptable—”

“Which?” France asked lightly, trying not to smile.

“You know damn well which,” England snapped, pointing at the treaty. “You expected me to just surrender all thirteen of my colonies—”

“Yes, I do, actually,” France cut him off, strolling up to the other side of the desk. “I really do.”

England shut his mouth, forcing out through gritted teeth, “That is, _grossly_ disproportional to the scale of this conflict-”

“Then surrender your territories in India,” France shrugged. Russia shot him a look, but when he continued Russia understood. “Or perhaps your sugar colonies in the Caribbean? I suppose you could always give Gibraltar back to Spain-”

England clenched his fists so tight his knuckles turned white. “No.”

France’s grin began to creep over his features, sharp and mirthless. “Well then.”

“What of Alfred? How do I explain—”

“Don’t think of it as losing a child,” France interrupted smoothly, his voice taking on an English air. “Think of it as an economic necessity.”

From the way England flinched, Russia suspected those words were not originally France’s. He watched them, England’s fury and shame roiling beneath the surface contrasted with France’s steady, vicious calm. This was a- a rending of pride. An ancient, hated enemy’s slow, agonizing disassembly of everything England thought made him strong. Witnessing it felt… almost wrong.

England’s gaze flicked to Russia for a moment—there was distrust there, old but raw, and it lessened minutely when he looked back to France. “You can’t possibly be happy with this,” he said, voice low as he gestured back to the treaty. “All thirteen colonies, to _him?_ What, did he promise to suck you off under the table every night?”

Russia tried not to sneer, walking over to the desk. He had been content to let France deal all the damage himself, but if England was going to drag him nation into this, then that was that. “I’m flattered to think you hate me more than France.”

“At least one of you is civilized,” England fired back. France cocked a brow, lips softening to an entertained smile.

Russia tilted his head, asking in mock confusion, “I’m sorry— remind me which one of us hasn’t put a man to death in the last twenty years?”

“Oh don’t hide behind that—it’s a farce,” England pronounced. “ _Mutilating_ people is hardly a step above a proper execution.”

England turned to France, continuing as if the young empire weren’t in the room. Russia felt a painful heat constrict his heart. “Alfred’s done nothing to deserve this. You can’t seriously expect Russia to raise a child, especially given his own upbringing—”

France opened his mouth as if to warn; Russia didn’t give him the chance, hands braced on the desk as he hissed, “You know _nothing_ about my upbringing. I will be there for Alfred, in a way you never were—”

“How do you fancy he even _wants_ you there?” England fired back. “Englishmen will never truck with your Asiatic barbarism—”

“I am European!” Russia thundered, slamming a hand down on the desk. The ink well trembled.

A silence; then England drawled, “Really?”

England was baiting him, he knew England was baiting him. He wanted to knock the cocky island to the floor and slam his head into the plush Oriental rug until he stopped smirking like a self-righteous victim. That level of violence would absolutely prove England’s point. Russia forced himself to straighten as he took a deep breath.

“Yes,” he managed to say past the rage that threatened to blind him. “Whether you like it or not.”

“Besides,” France interjected. “This is the treaty, and you, Angleterre, will sign it regardless of your opinion on Russie’s parenting credentials.”

England crossed his arms. “I will do no such thing.”

“You will,” Russia said, grateful for the desk between them. “I will have my warm water ports. If you refuse to sign, I will find them closer to home.” He met England’s gaze. “I heard London port doesn’t freeze in the winter.”

England stiffened, lips pulled back in disgust. “Are you suggesting—”

“I am suggesting that you don’t actually have room to negotiate here,” Russia growled. “You lost; these are the terms; you either sign the fucking treaty and stop wasting my time or I sail my fleet to London. A hundred years have passed since the Great Fire, yes? You’re about due for another.”

No one moved, England’s gaze locked with his. Russia imaged he could taste the hate in the heavy air, shot through with soot and gunpowder. France leaned over and plucked the quill from the ink well, thrusting it towards England. England gave him a baleful look, before he snatched the feather out of France’s hand and sat at the desk, pulling the treaty to him.

“You’ll regret this, you know,” he commented matter-of-fact as he signed. A fraying line of gold trim on the cuff of his red coat trailed across the page.

France rolled his eyes and accepted the quill, adding his own name with a flourish before offering the quill to Russia.

He took it, waiting as France flipped the treaty to face him. Russia ran his eyes over the terms one last time out of reflex, then took a breath and signed his name, first in Cyrillic and again in the Latin alphabet.

Something _shifted;_ he clutched the edge of the desk as vertigo swept through him. England looked faintly green, as if out at sea in a bad storm.

France seemed overall unaffected. “Excellent; glad to have this finally settled,” he said brightly, sprinkling sand over the signatures to dry them before rolling up the parchment.

Russia took a breath, letting the moment pass. His gaze slid to England. “Now that the treaty is signed, I want you to leave. Take your navy and go.”

England nodded shortly, standing. “Once the fleet’s provisions have been resupplied and I say good-bye to Alfred, I will—”

“No.”

France glanced up from tucking away the treaty. England stared at Russia. “I beg your pardon?”

“You resupply your fleet and you leave. Don’t come near him,” Russia elaborated.

“You cannot prevent me from seeing him-”

Russia didn’t let him finish. “If you attempt to see him before you leave the colonies, I will have you arrested and transferred to Newgate. I have visited there; you would not enjoy it.”

France stepped up next to him. “Russie.”

Russia ignored him. He watched England work his jaw, wrestling with all the horrid things that threatened to spill out.

“Cruelty befitting a monster,” he managed in a choked voice.

Russia noted with curiosity that the shot didn’t hurt like he expected it would. What did it matter if a disgraced empire thought poorly of him?

“Are we finished here?” he asked, turning to France.

The kingdom hesitated, glancing at England for the briefest moments. “Yes-”

“Good.” He turned his head in England’s direction but didn’t look directly—he didn’t need to in order to feel the overwhelming abhorrence rolling off the man. “A pleasure,” he nodded.

Then he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving England to his fury. France’s footsteps trailed behind them. Only once they were safely shut within the carriage did France dare venture his question.

“You don’t think that was a little much?”

Russia stared out the window. “No. I don’t.”

—

The knock on his door at dusk sent America from the floor to upright as fast he could manage. “Yes?” he called, clinging to the desk chair for support.

The door opened to admit Russia. America stiffened as the nation came over.

“Iz deener nou,” he said, picking him up before America could protest.

He squirmed. “Put me down! Get me a crutch; I can walk on my own!”

“Layter,” the Russian replied as he carried America downstairs.

“You keep saying that!”

Russia ignored him, bringing him into the inn’s private dining room. The long table was set with four places: France was already seated at the head, with Canada to his left.

France smiled when they entered. “So familiar already,” he commented, sipping his wine.

America sneered as Russia deposited him in the chair next to Canada before taking the remaining seat to France’s right. “I’m not hungry,” he stated.

“So don’t eat,” France shrugged.

He scowled, and ignored everyone as the serving dishes were carried out. Then France folded his hands in prayer.

 _“Bénis-nous, Seigneur, ceux qui s'apprêtent à recevoir, par ta bonté, le Christ, Notre Seigneur. Amen,_ ” he intoned. America’s lip curled as France and Canada crossed themselves. Catholics. They started eating, and America saw Russia, eyes closed, hands still clasped as his lips moved soundlessly. When he finished, he crossed himself—backwards.

America made a face. Catholics and heathens, God help him… His stomach rumbled, reminding him of how little he had eaten recently. The food was French, of course it was French. He pushed it around his plate, angry at how good it was, not wanting to eat it. France’s voice and nonsensical language ground down his nerves. The few times Russia or Canada spoke up, he breathed a small sigh of relief at the reprieve, however short. The whole situation was ridiculous. Forcing him to eat French food with them, and then not even speaking in a language he could understand. If they wanted him to be nice and social, they’d have to try much harder.

“And how was your day, America? Plenty of time to reflect?” France asked cheerily.

Then again, the whole conversation being in French might be best. “My day was fine,” he mumbled, stabbing at a piece of chicken.

“And what did you do?”

He clenched his jaw, eyes on his plate. “You can’t possibly care.”

“Just curious.”

“Be curious with someone else.”

“How is your ankle?”

“Still broken, no thanks to you.”

“No thanks to me? I certainly didn’t suggest trying to escape out the window.”

“Piss off,” America snapped.

France crowed, “Oh you are all claws and teeth tonight!”

Russia spoke up, questioning. France replied, all innocence, and Russia frowned. They vanished into conversation again, and America cut his dinner into tiny pieces, pretending it was someone else.

Something nudged his knee, drawing him out of his vengeful knifework. He sat back a bit and glanced down, eye widening to see the muzzle of a small white bear his lap. He glanced up quickly; no one else seemed aware of the creature. Why on earth was there a bear cub under the table? It didn’t seem wild though… He held out his hand, felt the cub sniff it; then the bear butt its head into his palm.

America smiled, then a thought struck him. Russia and France were engaged in conversation still… He took a bit of food off his plate and held it under the table. The bear licked it up instantly. Ha- try to feed _him_ French food, would they? He slipped a few more morsels under the table.

Then he felt teeth close around his hand and froze, eyes going wide. It didn’t hurt, didn’t break the skin; America tried to pull his hand away gently and felt the bite dig in. He paled.

“Canada,” he hissed, holding perfectly still. “Canada, _help._ ”

Canada looked over and America jerked his head furtively towards the ground. “There’s a bear,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

Canada’s eyes widened as he took it in—America’s hand clamped firmly yet bloodlessly in the cub’s jaws. “ _Objiwe_ , no—” America watched, brows near his hairline, as Canada held out a bit of chicken and lured the cub away, leaning down to scratch around its ears as he chided it in French.

“Canada—oh!” France gasped, finally noticing the situation. “ _Est ta ours à la table? Qu'est-ce que je t'ai dit à ce sujet!_ ”

Canada ducked his head, apologizing, as France stood and pulled his chair back. Speaking over him in rapid French, France escorted boy and bear out of the dining room. When the door shut, leaving them alone, America looked back to Russia for his reaction. The other nation didn’t notice, calmly focused on finishing his dinner. Frowning, America ate a bit more as well, trying to ignore what felt like an awkward silence.

France and Canada didn’t return. When Russia finished eating, he said prayers again, then carried America back to his room, setting him down on his bed. “ _Bonne nuit_ , good night,” he intoned.

America didn’t answer, and Russia didn’t demand a reply, leaving him with a lit candle. America changed with only a little difficulty, and lay in bed, thoughts racing for what felt like hours until he finally drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> France recites a simple meal blessing, easy enough to look up if you want to know the specific words.
> 
> And yes, Canada is doing that slightly distasteful colonizer thing by naming his polar bear cub Objiwe.
> 
> Next chapter will be posted Friday, Feb. 24th.


	3. Le Tour Grand

Russia appeared again the next morning to bring him down for breakfast. The table was set only with croissants, butter, and jams; not an egg or bowl of oatmeal in sight. America scowled as Russia placed him in the chair.

“Where’s the _actual_ breakfast?” he demanded.

France didn’t look up from buttering his croissant. “I know Angleterre feeds you the heaviest foods possible, but you will adjust soon enough.”

Next to him, Russia mumbled something under his breath and slathered a croissant in jam.

America huffed and drank his tea—at least they got that right—studying Canada’s breakfast. He didn’t appear to have tea. “Are you drinking coffee?”

The boy looked up. “Eh? No, this is cocoa.”

He arched a brow. “Cocoa? For _breakfast_?”

“You will find, Amérique, that other places do things differently,” France responded, drawing America’s focus off Canada. “For us—by which I mean civilized, French-speaking peoples—children frequently have cocoa with breakfast. ‘Tis not strange.”

America made a face at him, then went back to his tea. Which he liked perfectly well, but… he practically never got cocoa.

He settled on two croissants, which he drowned in different jams. No bear threatened his fingers from under the table; he wondered where it had gone.

“America?”

He swallowed, answering Russia around a remaining half bite of croissant. “Yes?” France frowned at him. America shoved the rest of the croissant in his mouth.

“After breakfast, I want to see Boston. You will show me, yes?”

America had the distinct impression that this was one of those questions that wasn’t actually a question. Still, he tried. “How am I supposed to do that? You still haven’t gotten me a crutch.”

He waited during the pause he now recognized as Russia working through an English puzzle. “We will ride horse,” Russia replied finally. “Also, you will have crutch.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

From the way France arched his eyebrows at the exchange, America supposed the man had thoughts about their morning venture as well. Probably thought he’d try to bolt again, or try to get Russia lost. America didn’t care. At least showing Russia around would get him out of his room-turned-prison-cell.

France and Canada excused themselves when done; Russia stood and went into the kitchen, leaving America alone. He scowled, then eased out of his chair, testing his ankle. Still not better, but at least he could gingerly put weight on it now.

Russia returned and picked him up without preamble, setting him back on the chair and placing a small collection of medical supplies on the table. America watched as again Russia shredded several dark green, oval-shaped leaves with his fingers, before grinding them into a paste in the mortar and pestle.

“What is it?” he asked.

“ _Podorozhnik_.”

“What is it in English?”

Russia shrugged.

“Well what does it do?”

Russia lightly tapped America’s swollen ankle; the colony winced. “It helps to heal, this.”

“Ankles?” America tried to clarify, as Russia unwrapped the previous night’s bandages. “Or sprains?”

“I don’t understand.”

America sighed. “Never mind.”

Russia smeared another thick layer of the green paste over the swollen joint and wrapped it in a fresh round of bandages, before returning the mortar and pestle to the kitchen. Then Russia deposited America in the foyer before disappearing upstairs for a minute or two. America braced his hands against the wall and tried to take tiny steps along it. He didn’t get more than a single foot when Russia returned with a wooden crutch carved to America’s height.

America received it eagerly. “Right! So let’s go see Boston.” He hobbled to the door, not bothering to see if Russia was following.

He stopped on the open wooden porch and took a lungful of fresh air. Yes, it carried the scent of the city with it, but at least it wasn’t the stale, dead air of his inn room. Behind him, he heard Russia send a stable hand for his horse. They waited, America readjusting his weight and his grip on the crutch every half minute, wondering if he should talk. Making conversation was the polite thing to do, and thus the choice England would approve of most, but then again England didn’t tend to make idle chit-chat with people beneath him… America didn’t know where they were going to go within the city though.

He asked, “What do you want to see?”

Russia shrugged. “Everything.”

“Okay… I guess we’ll look at the shops and visit the church, and we can go by the docks,” he mused aloud. As much as he’d rather not have anything to do with the other nation, this was his chance to show Russia just how much better English cities were than whatever he was used to. Probably sad little wood huts that let in the wind and snow and leaked from the roof. Maybe then Russia would realize what a horrible mistake the whole treaty was and leave him be.

The stable hand brought around a single horse which America figured was Russia’s, judging by the war saddle. Though the saddle holster where the Russian calvary stored their carbines was empty… Russia lifted him onto the horse first, swinging himself up immediately after. America tensed as Russia settled behind him, reaching around him to take up the reins. Russia nudged the horse into a walk; America stifled a grunt as the motion jarred his bad ankle.

“I have my own horse, you know,” America informed him as they left the inn courtyard.

“You have?”

“Yes. Her name is Llewellyn. She’s lovely.”

Russia nodded. “This is Vasyonya,” he said, patting her withers. “She is very good horse.”

With that, they passed into silence. America didn’t know if this was because Russia didn’t talk much, or because he didn’t speak much English. Either way it worked out, because America didn’t want to talk to him any more than necessary.

—

Russia was not overly surprised by the types of shops America deemed vitally important to show: the sweet shop, the toy shop, the general store. At the sweets’ shop, he let America talk him into getting a small batch of salt water taffy, and gave them each a piece. He found he liked it very much, even though it clung to his teeth; he’d share with France and Canada later. At the toy shop, Russia told America he could choose three things, whatever he wanted. America had raced about the store as fast as he could manage with a crutch, debating with himself, before he finally settled on a set of ninepins, a wooden bird whistle, and a handful of toy soldiers. As they left the toy shop, America’s mood noticeably brighter, he informed Russia that “this doesn’t mean we’re friends.” Russia repressed a smile.

America impressed him by adding to the list of important landmarks a printing press, with its huge wood and metal machines and ink-stained assistants (“We have three newspapers in Boston,” he declared); a grain mill slowly grinding wheat and corn to flour (“There are other mills along the Charles and the Mystic— sawmills too.”); and a cow pasture referred to as ‘the Common’, in which towered an oak.

“That’s where they hang people,” America explained.

“That is not allowed, in my home,” Russia said, staring at the tree as they rode past.

“What isn’t?”

“To hang people.”

America twisted around in the saddle to look up at him. “So what, do you, behead people or something?”

Russia shook his head. “We do not kill people.”

America’s brow knitted. The war said otherwise. “Not at all? What do you do with criminals then?”

“They go in prison. Or to Sibire.”

“Sea-beery? What’s that?”

“Land very far from capital. Wilderness.”

Overlooking the Common was the Hancock Manor, which America pointed out as the home of Massachusetts’s wealthiest merchant, John Hancock. Russia nodded, and didn’t say anything.

On Park Sreet, they passed the State Building, the clock facade flanked by a golden lion and unicorn in honour of Britain. The Bunch-of-Grapes tavern stood nearby, which America pointed out to note “that’s where the Masons meet”. Russia wasn’t surprised that a stone mason guild would meet in a tavern.

There were some dozen different churches scattered about the city: Protestant and Anglican and Quaker and Adventist and a whole host of Latin churches Russia never knew existed. No Orthodox churches, which was disheartening and not unexpected. The whole city seemed comprised of red brick, and if not brick then white-painted wood and plaster—very English. It had the same problems every city had: filth in the streets from emptied chamber pots, alleyways that remained bathed in shadows even in full day, horse dung piled in the streets. Russia remembered Kiev in ancient times, the sewer systems that lined the streets, and wondered again why no one had put it back into practice.

They stopped at a bookshop, a so-called ‘London Book-store’. America wandered around the tables, tracing restless hands over the books and not reading anything while Russia puzzled out titles and content. They were mostly religious pamphlets, bibles, books of psalms, treaties on law practice… But there were less heretical texts. He did find a book on the geography of the colonies, claiming to be accurate within the last three years. He bought that, a ‘History of the Relations Between the Indian Nations and the Colony of Massachusetts, as Evidenced through Skirmishes, Battles, Treaties, and Missionary Work’, and a manuscript copy of ‘Compendium Physicae’.

“Alfred, you want book?” he asked, stacking his selections to go to the counter.

America glanced over at the books Russia was carrying. “No.”

A thought struck him. “You can read?”

“Of course I can read,” America snapped, coming over. “Can we go now?”

Russia paid for his books, ignoring the bookseller’s unease. All of Boston felt like that, mistrustful. Even though he had opted to leave his uniform and sabre at the inn, his looks and accent made it clear where he was from and why he was in the city.

When they reached the street, he flipped open to the cover of Compendium Physicae, peering at the name of the person who copied it. “What is Garvard?” he asked, the initial h sounding closer to a g.

“Harvard? It’s the university—”

“You have university here?” he asked, cutting off the boy in his eagerness.

America eyed him, answering slowly. “Yes… It’s in Cambridge, on the other side of the river…”

Russia nodded. “Perhaps, after we see Boston, we go there.”

The colony sighed. “We’re almost done here, I guess. There’s just the dock left.”

Russia slipped his books into the horse’s saddlebags before they continued on foot down State Sreet, passing the Bunch-of-Grapes tavern again. They went slowly, America hampered by the crutch and his ankle, but when Russia suggested they ride, America shook his head furiously and stubbornly hobbled forward. Russia let him.

Passing under the shadow of a church—Anglican this time—he spied a beggar woman curled up against the lingering chill. He dropped a tuppence into her hand without thinking. A moment later he noticed America staring at him.

“What?”

“You just gave money to her,” America noted, lip curling.

“Yes?”

“You shouldn’t do that,” he stated matter-of-fact. “It just encourages them to be lazy and ignorant of God’s purpose.”

Russia blinked. “Beggars are loved by God; they are His children. They are our brothers and sisters in Christ.”

America gave him a look that suggested Russia couldn’t have said something more ridiculous short of predicting the Second Coming. That was a little concerning. What had Angliya taught the boy?

As they walked, State Street transformed into the Long Wharf. The wharf was lined with shops almost the entire length of it, including the section that jutted out over the water. Merchants and traders manned the shops and booths, calling out to servants running errands and shoppers moving at a more stately pace. Through the bustling crowd ran streams of sailors loading and unloading cargo in a riot of languages and colors. Russia caught snippets of Russian and French mingled into the dominant English, followed by Spanish and Dutch and others; there were Europeans and Africans and native Indians all trading and selling, smoking pipes and relying heavily on gesture and mixed tongues to communicate.

“This is the busiest wharf,” America informed him as they paused to fully take in the scene. “Well, the fish wharf is also pretty busy, but it smells, so we’re here.”

Russia nodded. It was not so busy or grand as Peterburg, but it was thriving, even in the aftermath of war. They went farther, past the shops. On the water, behind the trading vessels, anchored the Russian and French man-o-wars, sails neatly tied up in their idleness. They needed to be resupplied, but Russia had ordered this to take place around the large arena of trade as much as possible, so as to not disrupt it. Slower going, certainly, but he wanted the colonies to recover from the economic backlash of war quickly.

America frowned when he noticed the ships. “Let’s go,” he declared, turning back.

Russia trailed behind him as the colony hobbled back up the length of the wharf. Once over dry land, America veered off-course to show him a long brick building.

“This is Faneuil Hall; it’s an indoor market,” he explained. “Look there.”

Russia followed America’s pointed finger up to the top of the building’s clock tower. His brows knitted. “This is…”

“A grasshopper,” America stated. “The weather vane atop Faneuil is a gold grasshopper.”

Russia repeated the new word to himself, then asked, “Why?”

America shrugged. “Just is. Most of the other around here are roosters or arrows.”

They passed through the busy market. It was a familiar setup; there were several such indoor markets in Peterburg, absolutely necessary to conducting business during the winter. He supposed Boston would find them convenient as well, even though it did not get so cold.

Back up State Street, they returned to their horse. America seemed worn out; traveling with a crutch tended to do that. Russia checked that everything was still in their saddlebags and unhitched Vasyonya. “Now we go to Garvard—”

America wasn’t paying attention. He was staring across the street with a look of disgust and smoldering anger, and when Russia looked, he understood: at the State Building, someone had hung the Russian flag from the balcony. It hadn’t been like that when they passed before.

He shifted. “America—”

“We’re going back to the inn,” America announced sharply, turning away from the State Building. “I’m quite finished with playing servant boy this morning.”

Russia didn’t respond. He lifted up the colony and set him in the saddle, before swinging himself up behind the child. America kept as far from him as possible, and Russia felt his silence press outward like a physical barrier. He let them get all the way back to the inn and set America on the ground, retrieving his books from the saddle bag before he spoke.

“America, today we eat luncheon together.” He saw America’s shoulders hunch, wobbling with his weight on his good foot. Russia continued. “Please tell kitchen, we will eat colony food, what you want to eat. Yes?” He handed America the crutch.

“Fine,” America mumbled, crutch thunking across the floor as he limped towards the kitchen. Russia waited until America had returned, trailing him to second floor and waiting until America disappeared into his room. Then the Arctic nation went to his own.

He set the books on the bedside table and loosened the cravat under his scarf. The morning could have gone much worse. In fact, until America spotted the Russian flag, it was fairly pleasant. It was, a good sign, he hoped. America was bright and energetic and chatty, when he wasn’t sulking over this or that. God willing the trend would continue…

Sitting as his desk, he started another letter.

When the inn maid appeared to inform him that the midday meal was ready, Russia thanked her and put the finishing touches on an ink sketch of Faneuil Hall, complete with a miniature grasshopper atop the clock tower. He sanded the page, then blew it clean and folded it up with the letter to the Empress. Perhaps he would sketch the State Building next, with its obnoxiously British decoration…

America was already waiting in the dining room when Russia came down, standing a short way from the table, crutch tucked under one arm. He jumped when Russia entered and tried not to grin.

“Hello! The cooks have just finished; have a seat!” he said, gesturing to the table, already set for two. The plates were covered by a silver dome.

Russia paused, looking between America, the covered plates, and back again. Where was the sulking child of an hour ago? “What we are eating?” he asked.

“You’ll see— it’s excellent!” America hopped into his chair, waiting for Russia to sit as well.

Something was wrong… Russia stood at the head of the table and recited his prayers, then sank into his seat. America stared.

“You cross yourself four times to bless the meal? And bow three times as well? Isn’t that a little much?”

“I do not bless meal; God blesses meal,” Russia replied. He knew that wasn’t what America was referencing, but Russia didn’t have the English words to explain, yet again, the differences between Orthodoxy and the Latin church. Bad enough getting consistently funny looks from people in the west who thought he crossed himself ‘backwards’.

“Well obviously. No matter. Time to eat!” America declared, brightening again.

Russia felt America watching as he lifted the plate cover, and stopped, hand poised mid-air. “What… is it?”

“It’s a lobster,” America answered, unable to keep a straight face any longer.

“Lob—?”

“Lobster.”

Russia frowned. “You eat this?” The red, spiky monstrosity did not look like food. Perhaps similar to a crawfish, but those could fit in the palm of one’s hand. This… Russia was not about to let America trick him into eating something poisonous. The likelihood that Russia would die was relatively small—unless America knew how to compensate for a nation’s resilience, any poisoning attempts from from the colony was more likely to make him violently ill than kill him. Still, he would rather avoid sickness as well.

America lifted the cover of his own plate to reveal a slightly smaller creature. “Yup! See, I have one too.”

Russia set down the lid, then tapped the lobster’s back, which made an appropriate hollow-yet-filled-with-something sound. He glanced at the small dish of melted butter and what looked like a metal nutcracker laid out beside the plate. He felt America staring again, a devilish smile on his lips.

“I don’t know how to eat this,” Russia confessed. America’s grin widened.

“I’ll explain— so first, you take off the big claws—” Russia watched, half fascinated, as America broke off the two front claws with his bare hands and proceeded to snap off the mandibles, pulling out chunks of white and pink meat with his fingers. After dosing it in melted butter, America popped a piece in his mouth.

Russia considered the butter that threatened to drip down the colony’s arm, and slid out of his frock coat, hooking it off the back of his chair. After rolling up his sleeves, he took hold of a claw, feeling the little spikes near the joint pressed into his skin.

He looked up at America. “I simply—?” He made a breaking gesture.

“Yup!”

With a reasonable amount of pressure at the joint, the claw snapped off with a crack. A thin, whiteish fluid ran out over his hands. A good thing France was away for the day, he mused, almost smiling as he pictured France’s put-off expression at getting his hands dirty. Following America’s lead, he dismantled the claw to fish out the meat, dipping it in butter. He hesitated.

“Go on!” America urged.

Russia decided he was being paranoid about the risk of poisoning and ate the piece. His brows rose, and he nodded, swallowing. “It’s good.”

“It’s not to everyone’s tastes—I’m glad you like it.” America grinned again, and Russia wondered if he missed something.

America led him through eating the rest of it, cracking through the thicker shell and tearing the meat into bite-sized chunks. Eating a lobster was methodical, Russia discovered: each piece was eaten in order, from the claws back to the tail. It was messy. When he snapped the tail from the body, fluid sprayed over his face and chest; he blinked, ignoring America’s giggles and assurance that ‘that happens sometimes’. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and pushed the front panels aside, again grateful for France’s absence.

At the end, America took a hunk of bread and sopped up the liquid from his plate. A bowl of discarded shells sat between them on the table, evidence of the carnage.

“Lobster is… violent meal,” Russia remarked.

America shrugged, wiping his hands clean on his napkin with an air of satisfaction. Was he just pleased to have gotten Russia to eat with his hands?

“Your people eat lobster often?”

“Oh, only certain folks.” America slid out of his chair, evidently done with the luncheon despite not being excused.

Russia held up a hand to stop him from hobbling towards the door. “Only certain folks?” he repeated.

America met his gaze. “Servants and prisoners, mostly. Lobster suits their tastes, you see. Lobsters are scavengers; they eat all the rotting things in the sea. So it’s not to everyone’s taste.”

Russia felt his cheeks stain red. Servants and prisoners—was that the category America saw him in? Low-class, the undesirables of society… He could expect a trick like that from Prussiya, maybe, or Angliya, but from a young child-colony? “So how you know to eat it?” he snapped.

“Seems appropriate, given my circumstances,” America replied, shifting his weight on the crutch. Russia frowned at the unfamiliar words, but didn’t ask America to repeat them. He could tell by the tone they did not make pleasant commentary.

“You may go,” Russia told him, standing. America left as proudly as he could manage on a crutch, a smug sense of victory radiating off him.

A serving maid entered and began clearing the table. She didn’t look at him, in the way that all servants kept their heads down and focused on their task when a superior was nearby, hoping not to draw attention to themselves. He had lived that pattern before. Her deference was no guarantee that she hadn’t overheard the entire conversation, stifling giggles just inside the kitchen as the staff watched a young boy lead one of the higher-ups from the enemy through eating food reserved for the undesirables of colonial society. The kitchens were always a hub for gossip.

Russia glanced down at his waistcoat, flecked here and there with spots of liquid from the lobster. He should change into something clean before France returned.

He left without a word, returning to his room. France always had one ear to the grapevine, a truly polished courtier whether in court or amongst the troops. He would likely hear of this incident. During the war, Russia had heard France share things during strategic meetings that were reflected in no report. He doubt the veracity of this information at first, even as the French officers accepted the rumours as gospel truth. But France turned out right, time after time, teasing out the truth like golden fleece from a pile of moth-eaten wool. Russia learned to hold his tongue at meetings and give the benefit of the doubt, though instructing his officers on back up plans should the news prove incorrect. The back up plans were never implemented.

Not to say that some rumours weren’t false, like the dominant winter myth that the British had managed to march west again through New York like they had before Russia’s involvement, and were then cutting north across the frozen Lake Ontario in the hopes of recapturing Fort Frontenac before moving on Montreal. That rumour had the men on edge for weeks, eying the woods to the south-west as if they expected to see Red Coats any minute. France wasn’t concerned, and rightly so it turned out: the British avoided marching during the winter, whereas Russia’s troops and the French-Canadian contingency of France’s troops merely shrugged and carried on.

That had been towards the beginning of Russia’s involvement, after surprising the British at Port Royal and disabling nearly half of Angliya’s fleet. Not a bad entry into the North American theatre. Elizaveta had timed her declaration of war to be delivered to the British ambassador by way of a defeated Prussiya to follow the departure of the Russian fleet from Pieter, ensuring that they’d make it past the British Isles with little engagement. By Russia’s calculation, the timing gave him a month’s lead on the news traveling out of London, which was why Port Royal was caught completely off-guard by the appearance of Russian ships.

Angliya had taught him that tactic, almost sixty years prior when Russia had traveled to London with Peter the Great. They had been in the Netherlands before that, before Peter decided their methods weren’t precise enough. So they traveled to England, to learn ship-building and naval tactics from the best. The sea-faring nation had passed by the shipyard as Peter and Russia worked, no doubt curious about the crowds of Londoners gawking at the tall foreigners. Angliya’s long red coat caught Russia’s eyes like a splash of blood in the drab surroundings.

He asked through a translator what Russia was doing, voice laced with incredulity, and laughed at the honest answer: ‘learning about ships’. Said the only way to learn about ships was to be on a ship. So Russia spent three months at sea with England, sailing around the Isles and making forays in deeper waters, taunting French ships and actually capturing a Spanish merchant vessel.

“Because I’m a privateer,” England had answered simply when Russia asked why they would attack a peaceful ship. The grin was sharp and gleeful. “Besides, describing a naval battle will never be as good as experiencing one. Good for your education.”

Russia wondered if England regretted teaching him now.


	4. Plans for Mice and Men

America heard the clatter of a returning carriage pass under his window; a quick glance told him it was France’s. Sure enough, within moments he could hear snippets of a lilting voice float up the stairs. He had no reason to think France planned on bothering him, but he still listened until the door to the suite safely opened and shut. Then he returned his attention to his mouse trap. Now that he had avenged himself against Russia a bit, it was France’s turn.

It was a crude trap, as such things went— a small box constructed from thin wood pieces he pulled out of the tinder box, rough joints cut into the ends with his antler-handled pocket knife. That tool he had smuggled to the inn when France first fetched him from Menotomy, the smooth grip pressed flat against his stomach from the knife’s place wedged into the hem of his breeches. The soldiers didn’t search his bag, so he could’ve carried it there, but he’d rather make sure it came with him. The whetstone and oil he did carry in his bag, and after luncheon he sharpened the pocket knife to perfection.

He shaved slivers of wood away from the joints, checking periodically to see if the piece fit together yet. As he laid in bed last night unable to sleep, a tiny mousy visitor had crept into his room and nibbled the remains of the luncheon tray America had set by the door. He didn’t mind, but if the mouse was going to partake in his food, he would ask a favour in return.

When the joints all fit together, he cut a hole through the top of the box and the slanted piece the served as the door, threading a bit of string through both of them and out the top, knotting it in place. When he pulled on the string, the door opened, but remained shut otherwise. Baiting it with bread he nicked from the lobster meal—he glowed with triumph at the memory—he positioned the box under his bed in the corner. Using another sliver of carved wood, he propped the door open such that when the mouse went for the food, it would knock the sliver aside—the door would drop shut, and the mouse would be trapped.

The last time he made this trap, it was big enough to catch a rabbit—that’s what he suspected of gnawing holes into his squash vines. The first night he caught a small skunk, which was almost disastrous. He had dragged a sheet off the guest bed and awkwardly held it up like a shield when he stood behind the trap and pulled the cord to open the door. So long as the skunk didn’t see him, it wouldn’t spray. The fluffy black-and-white creature cautiously emerged from the trap, then ran for the hedgerow. The lingering scent of skunk drowned out the scent of human, and the next night America had his rabbit.

He grabbed an empty harvest crate from the root cellar and filled it with grass and leaves and hay, depositing the small bunny within. He marveled over the adorable creature— the constantly sniffing pink nose, the long ears kept flat to the head, the round dark eyes. When he reached out with gentle fingertips, he found the fur to be the softest he had ever felt. The bunny remained tucked in its corner of the box, vibrating faintly, and never tried to run. All the neighbouring children came to see, to coo and carefully pet it, though their fascination faded much faster than America’s.

But something went wrong. America left carrots and lettuce and crunchy sugar snap peas fresh from the vine for the bunny to enjoy, but they went untouched. The shallow dish of water was likewise ignored. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong. It didn’t seem sick. America sat hunched by the box, watching his bunny grow thinner and weaker, asking in a small voice what was the matter, why wouldn’t it eat? When he pet its soft, soft fur, the bunny barely opened its eyes.

The morning he found it dead, he carried its tiny form out to the garden and buried it amongst the squash mounds. His neighbour saw him crying and asked what was the matter; when he told her, she tugged him into the folds of her skirts and hugged him.

“Rabbits don’t do well as pets, dear. They need their freedom,” she explained, smoothing down the fluff of his hair.  
He didn’t set any more traps after that, just made certain to keep the garden fence in good repair.

This trap was different though, mice only. And he wasn’t going to keep the mouse either. Once the trap was in place, he wiggled out from under the bed. With any luck, he’d have his mouse by morning, and then the second phase of his vengeance would unfold.

—

Russia has just finished rubbing chalk into the butter spots on his waistcoat when he heard France return. He put the waistcoat away and double-checked his reflection in the mirror over the long serving table. All signs of the lobster fiasco, gone.

France read his clothing change the moment he walked in the room; Russia saw the way his eyes flicked from head to feet and back again. “You’ve not supped yet?”

Russia shook his head. “I waited for you.”

Canada skirted around his father’s heels, taking a wide path around the furniture to disappear into his room, a large bundle wrapped in paper clutched in his arms. Russia arched a brow at France.

“Fish,” he explained with a sigh, pouring himself a shot of bourbon. “For the bear.” He took a seat opposite Russia and sipped. “I am beginning to regret my decision to allow the silly thing to accompany us. There is a polar bear at the menagerie at Versailles; why bring this one? I’m going to have to assign someone the task of fishing during our journey, just to feed it.”

“But the bear makes Canada happy,” Russia noted. He was also very fond of bears, and was pleased to discover that Objiwe didn’t seem to mind him.

“I know; that’s why I couldn’t stand to part them,” France sighed.

“America has a horse— some unpronounceable Welsh name. I would like to bring her back with us,” Russia said, watching France directly.

The man paused, lowering his glass. “You’ve decided then?”

Russia nodded. “I want America to come back to Peterburg with me.”

France mirrored his nod. After a moment, he ventured, “I can’t imagine he’ll agree with the idea. Have you told him yet?”

“No. I fear knowing would cause him to try escaping again.” America had the will to get two blocks away on a compromised ankle upon learning that he was now a Russian colony. God only knew the reserves of strength he’d find if he learned that they intended to take him back to Europe. “But he cannot learn about the court from here.”

“From such a colonial backwater? Certainly not,” France agreed. He sat a little straighter. “Well that’s good then. Canada will have some company for the trip to Versailles.” He paused, glancing at his bourbon. “That is, if you’ll sail with me? Four months at sea is a very long time to pass without company.”

Russia felt his cheeks turn pink. “I, could arrange that,” he replied. France smiled and Russia glanced away, willing the blush to fade.

“You realize that America would likely have to share a room with you, yes?” France pointed out.

The arctic nation winced. Four months confined to a small space with a child who vehemently disliked him. But that was bound to happen regardless of whether he traveled with France or on his own ship. “Yes. I’ll manage. How is your resupply going?”

“Well! We should be ready to sail the day after tomorrow.”

“Good. My fleet will also be ready then.” The last thing they need was a sufficient supply of hay and America’s horse.

France drained the rest of his bourbon and set the glass down with a sigh. “I will be happy to leave. The colonies are quaint and charming in their own way, but… I miss home.”

Russia recognized the wistful edge to his voice. He stood and came around the coffee table, France’s gaze following him as he sat down beside the older nation. Pushing past a burst of hesitation he hoped France didn’t noticed, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to France’s forehead.

  
France hummed, closing his eyes as he shifted to rest his head on Russia’s shoulder, hand settling on Russia’s lap. Russia tilted his head to lean on France’s and covered the other nation’s hand with his own.

“I miss home too,” he murmured. It always happened, whenever a nation left their borders—a dis-ease settled over their shoulders, a faint thrum of discomfort under the skin. Russia could never tell if it was his own lands calling him back, or foreign lands pushing against him, seeking to drive him out. One got use to it eventually; experience allowed him to push it to the corners of his mind for a majority of the time, but it never left completely. They had been away from their lands for nearly three years, trying to finish this war in the colonies. That was long enough.

France sighed. “We should have dinner.” He didn’t move.

“We’ll call supper to the room,” Russia suggested.

“No no, we should set a good example for the children,” France mumbled. He turned his face, burying his nose in Russia’s scarf; Russia felt a tingle race down his spine. “Only promise me that once the children are in bed, you’ll have drinks with me?”

That was, definitely an invitation for more than just drinks. He glanced down with his eyes only, keeping his head still, taking in the way France’s golden hair framed his face from that angle, long dark lashes brushing his cheeks. “Yes, I will,” Russia answered, very aware of France’s hand on his thigh.

France left a kiss in the folds of his scarf and pulled back, standing with a half-smile before he called to Canada for supper. Russia left the room, pausing in the hall to breathe and banish the lingering blush before he knocked on America’s door. He had seen America wobble around on his crutch all morning; he could get himself to supper.

—

America took long enough to get to the table that Russia was half way out of his seat to go fetch him when the door swung open. The colony leveled a glare at him before shifting it to France; Canada, Russia noted, received no such attack. In fact, during the course of the dinner America leaned over to Canada a few times, questions in his eyes. Canada summarized conversation, which still didn’t let America fully participate in the stories France shared, but hearing them second-hand was better than sitting silently trapped in one’s own head. Learning a language through immersion was quickest, but… Russia knew how isolating the experience could be.

“And how was your day, America?” France asked lightly, shifting to English. “How was Boston?”

This again. Judging from poorly hidden sneer, America did not think highly of France’s scattered and somewhat asinine attempts to include him.

“Boston was fine, if one ignores all the soldiers crawling about,” he answered, stabbing his chicken.

France shot him a look over America’s refusal to make eye contact. “Anything interesting in the city today?”

“I saw a Russian flag where it had no right to be,” the colony snipped, glare flicking over to Russia before returning to his plate.

> “Given the circumstances…” France began, absently inspecting his nails.

  
Russia recognized that tone, giving a minute shake of his head in warning.

France either didn’t see or ignored him outright. “I think the only place a Russian flag has no right to be is over the grave of a British soldier—”

America slammed his silverware onto the table. “What is wrong with you!” he shouted.

Russia caught the eye of the serving maid positioned by the kitchen door and dismissed her with a slight jerk of his head. She dropped a swift curtsy before fleeing to the kitchen, just as France exclaimed, “ _America_ , don’t shout.”

“Then don’t say stupid things like that!”

Russia laid his hand on France’s thigh, giving him a strong look when the kingdom glanced his way. France settled back into his seat somewhat. Russia couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not; he hoped not.

“That’s enough,” Russia announced.

“ _Dats eenaff_ ,” America mocked, under his breath yet still loud enough for everyone to make out. A twinge of embarrassment curled in Russia’s gut, and he pushed it aside.

Dinner straggled on coated in a sheen of tension. Russia focused on France’s stories, and told himself the glimmer of relief that swept through him at supper’s end did not mean he was too weak to withstand a child’s spite.

America disappeared upstairs as fast as his crutch would allow. Both nations noticed the forlorn look on Canada’s face; France crouched beside him.

“What’s the matter, cher?” he asked, smoothing back Canada’s curls. Russia could see the relation between them: Canada shared France’s wavy golden hair, a hint of higher cheek bones hidden beneath the roundness of youth. Time would show them if Canada had also inherited the playful, almost tricksy edge found in France’s expressions; he already had the wide, expressive eyes for it.

They weren’t a perfect match though. Russia remembered decades before when he had visited Versailles, lying tangled up in the sheets with France, listening as the kingdom described his little treasure across the sea, so like and unlike himself.

“His eyes though, Russie—little shards of amethyst. Like yours,” France had said, propping himself up on one arm to peer at Russia’s eyes. He had buried a squirm under the scrutiny, letting France lay gentle fingertips by the corner of his eye. “I wonder why?”

Russia hadn’t shared his theory, that the only nations with violet eyes seemed to be the ones Winter took particular interest in. France was too south, too- _warm_ , to understand the significance. If the theory was correct—and Russia thought it might be, given the winters they had during the war—Canada would come to understand it in his own time, if he didn’t already. Winter’s care was a… capricious blessing.

He listened as France reassured Canada that no, America didn’t hate him, he was just grumpy, and that they would have plenty of time to play together on the way back to Versailles. Thus reassured, Canada went off to prepare for bed, and the adults moved towards the sitting room.

—

“You shouldn’t speak of that aloud yet.” Russia shut the door behind him, watching as France poured two glasses of bourbon.

France approached and handed him one. “Of what? The trip? America had already shut himself in his room, and besides, he doesn’t speak French.”

“Humour me,” Russia said, following France to the sofa. There was a half second pause as he tried to decipher how close to France he should sit without being presumptuous or signaling disinterest. France cut short his calculations by taking his free hand and guiding him to sit directly next to the older nation. France leaned into him and Russia felt warmth seep into his side.

“How did the tour of Boston go?” France asked.

Russia shrugged. “Well enough. We stopped at a bookstore and I got a few for the trip. I got America three things from the toy shop—”

“Trying to bribe him already,” France grinned. “My goodness, you’re incorrigible-”

“It’s not a bribe,” he countered. “I like getting nice things for people.”

“Mm, and you also like people to like you,” France smiled, sipping his bourbon.

“It’s not a bribe,” he repeated, frowning.

France gave a bemused sighed. “Very well, it’s not a bribe. I’m only teasing, Russie.”

He hesitated, then lied, “I know.” It was hard to tell with France; sometimes he got the impression that France was both teasing and being serious simultaneously.

“Was that all?”

“No—we also visited the general store, a printing press, passed by a mill— oh-” He stood, retrieving a small white box from his room. “I got these at the sweets shop,” he explained, sitting back down and offering the box to France.

France looked over the multi-hued sweets wrapped in wax paper and selected a green one, tasting it. He gave a slight nod, eyes toward the ceiling, as if indicating the treat to be passable. Covering his mouth with his hand, he asked, “What is it?”

“Taffy. America suggested it.”

France’s grin returned. “You are going to spoil him rotten.”

“They are for everyone,” Russia stated, setting the box on the low table and taking a few more sips from his bourbon.

France washed away the sticky remains of the taffy with more of his own drink. “I gather at some point America saw a Russian flag?”

The empire nodded. “Not until the very end, at least. Someone hung it off the balcony of the State House.”

France nodded. “That would do it. Clearly we should hang one in front of the Governor’s House.”

“France—”

“It would be funny.”

“I don’t want to provoke a rebellion.”

France went quiet for a moment, which Russia had learned signaled a shift from light-hearted to serious. “You might end up with one regardless, you know,” he said, settling further against Russia’s side. “Angleterre’s people are proud and stubborn—”

“That sounds familiar,” Russia commented. France whacked his arm lightly.

“And, Angleterre has had a Parliament for nearly a hundred years now,” he continued. “That’s easily three generations—they don’t remember having an absolute monarch.”

Russia shifted, France’s elbow digging uncomfortably into the top of his hip. “So? Do you not have something similar, the Estates-General?”

France snorted, dismissing the thought with a wave of his hand. “Entirely different. Aside from the fact that they haven’t been called since 1614, they only advise my kings. Angleterre’s king needs to get permission from his Parliament to do certain things, like raise taxes.” At Russia’s incredulous look, France gushed, “I _know_ ; it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? But that’s what I mean—these people in the colonies think such a system is normal and natural.”

“Praise God’s infinite mercy for bringing them back under a truly normal and natural system,” Russia murmured, draining the rest of his bourbon.

France plucked the glass from his fingers and stood, refilling both of theirs. He curled right back up against Russia when he returned, swirling his drink once before venturing, “I have to ask… How on earth are you going to administer these colonies? They are- what, six months’ travel from Saint-Pétersbourg?”

“The same way I administer Sibérie, and you, Canada,” he answered. Administering the American colonies would be arguably easier than Sibir’, since overland travel took so much longer than sailing. Still, that didn’t address who would be appointed to govern, how Elizaveta would address the current differences between the peoples—

“Papa?”

Canada’s quiet voice dragged him out of the rapidly brewing storm. France stood. “Ready for prayers, mon petit?” The child nodded; France left another quick kiss on Russia’s cheek, earning himself a pointed look. “I’ll be back shortly.”

The administrative storm resumed moments after the door shut. Russia tried to stave off the questions—really, it wasn’t up to him who was sent to administer to the colonies. He’d probably have to reassure the man chosen that Her Majesty likely didn’t intend the position as a punishment, which is what a station so far from court was usually understood to be. No, the colonies were nothing like Sibir’, particularly as one went farther south. Russia hadn’t gone any farther than Richmond during the campaigns, though Charleston had been a tempting target. He should probably arrange a tour in a later year to the southern most reaches of the colonies, where the boundaries between Georgia and Spanish-held Florida blurred.

Spain had gained some territorial concessions from England out of this war too, previously disputed lands wedged between Florida and Georgia in the east, and France’s New Orleans in the west. No doubt Spain saw England weakening and seized the opportunity to settle old debts… The whole south looked like a tinder box, he realized— French, Spanish, and Russian-backed English living all in a line. Before they set sail, he should give orders to evacuate any British settlers now living within Spanish territory, and reinforce any existing forts along the border, with permission to build new ones if there were gaps of a sufficient size…

“Such a face! What are you musing over?” France commented as he returned, plopping down on the sofa.

Russia frowned, drinking half his glass before grumbling, “If we want anything more interesting to happen tonight, we need to stop discussing politics.”

France laughed, shifting to better face him. “Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to put you in a poor mood. Quite the opposite.”

He leaned in and kissed Russia’s cheek again, before fetching the remains of his bourbon off the table. The amber liquid swished to one side, promising a sweet delirium as France drank the rest of it; Russia tasted the lingering flavour on France’s lips when they kissed again. And again, France more insistent as his free hand wandered. Russia growled softly into their kiss, before dragging France onto his lap; France grinned like the devil’s own in reply as he nuzzled up against the larger nation. The empty glass thunked onto the carpet behind the sofa as France used both hands to catch another kiss. Fire slipped down Russia’s throat and curled low and pulsing in his gut.

A few fumbling, breathless minutes later, when France’s waistcoat was unbuttoned and his shirt pulled loose from the hem of his breeches, Russia heaved them forward on the couch and stood. His strong arms gripped France at the back of his thighs, the smooth curve of his ass; France giggled, arms thrown around Russia’s neck as the arctic nation carried him to the bedroom, batting the door shut as they passed through.


	5. House Call

The next morning America flattened himself to the floor and squiggled under the bed to check the trap. He grinned, spying the little door shut.

—

Russia slipped out of France’s room before the servants came by to stir the embers, and froze.

Canada met his gaze, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with a book in his lap and Objiwe curled up next to him. Russia thank god he had donned all of his clothing before he left the room, rather than go with his initial plan for the short trip from France’s bed to his own.

“Canada,” he said softly, though he had no idea how he could excuse leaving France’s room before dawn.

Canada shook his head, and raised a single finger to his lips. Russia stared—did he _know?_ —but nodded once, willing Canada to understand his silent thanks. The colony smiled, bright and innocent, and Russia stole out of the room.

He decided he had been underestimating the child since meeting him in Quebec. He wondered if France knew.

—

America listened absently for the sounds of France and Russia going about their morning, waiting for a gap he could use. His toy soldiers were lined up on the floor in two regiments of ten, plus a cavalry unit numbering five. He could tell at a glance which soldiers he got from England, and which from Russia— England’s were well loved, paint chipping at the corners of hats and boots, whereas Russia’s were still untried in battle, paint crisp and unblemished, the tiny dabs of gold paint for buttons not yet rubbed off by the thousands of finger passes it took to direct long-term invasion forces.

He heard a door open in the hall and paused, hearing France and a second, softer pair of footsteps he understood to be Canada make their way to the stairs and down.

Good, one down. Now where was Russia…

Russia’s footsteps left his room shortly after, but instead of going towards the stairs—

America leapt up and grabbed the mouse trap off the desk, shoving it under the bed at Russia knocked. “Yes, what is it?” America called.

“Time for breakfast. Please come join us,” Russia stated clearly from the other side of the door.

“Okay, I’ll be right down,” America answered, ears straining to hear past the pause— Russia moving away from the door… Then down the stairs, perfect!

Heart pounding, America retrieved the trap, apologizing to the unseen mouse for the sudden upheaval, and grabbed his crutch, cautiously making his way down the hall as quiet as he could manage. His ankle felt much better than it had yesterday; he wondered if the plant paste Russia kept smearing over it had helped. He put the thought from his mind as he reached France’s door, glancing down the stairs. No sign…

He pushed into the room quickly, skirting the sitting room for the bedroom with short, furtive steps, grateful that the thick carpet muffled the sound of his crutch. He went straight for the chest at the foot of the bed, heaving it open to reveal stacks of silk waistcoats and frock coats and linen chemises. Pulse racing under his skin, he opened the trap and tilted it until the mouse, a tiny pale brown creature smaller than America’s fist, slipped out onto the clothes and instantly hid up a sleeve.

America grinned, closing the lid. Perfect. He broke down the trap at the joints, dropping the innocuous wood pieces into the tinder box, and left, shutting all the doors behind him as he reached the hall.

“America.”

He froze at the top of the stairs, Russia standing in the foyer below. “What?” he snapped, heart pounding.

“You need me to carry you?” he asked.

Relief washed over him. “No!” he scowled, slowly going down the steps. “I’ll get there just fine on my own; give me a minute, won’t you?”

Russia waited until he reached the foyer, then followed him into the dining room. France wore a look of mild impatience, which America ignored as he sat next to Canada.

They said grace, and America sighed at another round of croissants and not much else. “How can you stand to eat only bread for breakfast?” he grumbled.

“Some of us eat healthy meals, America; quite unlike the rest of your colonists,” France replied.

Before he could fire back that his people ate just fine and would be eating even better if a certain invading army hadn’t gone around commandeering grain surpluses in early spring, Russia interjected, “America, your house is in Menotomy, yes?”

America glanced at Russia, drawn out of his contemplation of how flammable a buttered croissant would be. “Yes…”

“How long to go there?” the huge nation asked.

“How long does it take to get there? From here?” America thought about it. “By horse… maybe a few hours?” He saw Russia calculating behind his eyes. “Why?”

France interrupted to ask Russia something, and he replied. America scowled. Didn’t France know it was rude to interrupt people? “Why do you want to know?” he asked loudly. “Going to send soldiers to burn it down?”

Russia looked back, startled. “Why I would burn your house?”

“I don’t know— isn’t that what conquering soldiers do?” America sneered.

Something flickered through Russia’s expression like a candle flame caught in a sudden gust. “No. Today I want to visit your house,” he explained.

America stared, glancing between Russia and France. “Why?”

“I want to see,” Russia answered simply.

That wasn’t a reason. Not a good one, at any rate. America tore small chunk off his croissant, the table suddenly quiet. After a beat, Russia prompted, “You will show me?”

America wasn’t sure this was an actual question. If he said no, would Russia just let it drop? Although, when France had appeared to transport him to Boston, he hadn’t had time to grab many things. Or hide any others. “Yes, I’ll show you.”

Russia brightened a bit. “ _Merci_ , thank you.” America grunted, continuing to pull apart his croissant as France drew Russia back into conversation, his tone a mix of questions and disapproval. America hoped Russia was in trouble.

After breakfast, he waited in the foyer as Russia vanished upstairs to prepare. France passed by, then slowed. America grit his teeth, eyes fixed on the entrance way—just keep walking, go upstairs and don’t bother-

“Today’s trip is for your benefit, you know,” France stated. Behind him, Canada came to a stop at his heels, glancing between them.

“I’ll be certain to demonstrate my immense gratitude at the privilege of being allowed to visit my own home,” America replied dryly.

“You should,” France quipped. “Russie doesn’t have to do this. He probably shouldn’t, given your poor behaviour.”

America turned to glare at him. “Maybe if you hadn’t kidnapped me from my home Russia wouldn’t have to take me back there to visit,” he snapped.

“And let you escape into the woods and raise a rebellion?” He sniffed. “I think not.”

“Go eat a frog,” America grumbled.

France’s gasp and beginning retort were cut short by a loud, “You are not fighting, yes?”

They both looked up the stairs—America felt himself go cold. Russia descended, dressed in full uniform, all white with cornflower accents and an officer’s gold trim. A short carbine was hooked over one shoulder, the cartridge pouch slung across his chest; at his waist hung a sabre and bayonet on his left, wheelock pistol on his right.

“Why are you dressed like that?” America blurted as Russia drew level with them.

Russia paused, then said something in French. “He says because not all of your people want to be friends with him,” France translated with a chuckle. “Which is accurate. A more reasonable choice would be to travel with a small unit for protection-”

“Menotomy will think you’re marching on them,” America said quickly. That’s what he would think anyway, if he learned that even a small detachment of troops were approaching.

“Which is probably why Russie is choosing to risk just his own life on this journey rather than those of his men.” America blinked, and France rolled his eyes at him, continuing, “ _Quoi_ , you think you are the only one concerned for the well-being of your people? Such a self-centered child.”

America bristled; Russia frowned at France. At his low warning France merely shrugged, the following tone unconcerned. “Have fun on your trip; don’t get shot,” he waved, heading towards his room.

Russia sighed before turning towards America. “What he sayed to you?”

America hesitated. “Nothing important.” He could tell Russia didn’t believe him, but the empire didn’t ask again.

The horse Vasonya was waiting for them just outside. America laid his crutch across the saddle once he was seated, and felt Russia swing himself up behind him. The carbine slid into a side holster on the saddle, safety on.

They attracted attention as soon as they left the inn yard. People stopped, pointing and whispering as they rode north through the city. Some glared; everyone gave them a wide berth on the street. Children scattered, or stared wide-eyed from around their mother’s skirts. America shifted, tugging his frock coat straight as he glanced up at Russia. The arctic nation stared straight ahead, posture stiff and unyielding. America wondered if he noticed the whispers. He wondered what the people thought of _him_ , riding with a Russian general and not kicking up a fuss about it. The lack of fuss was just so he could get home, he told himself. If he struggled, Russia would take them back to the inn.

They caught a barge across the Charles from Boston to Cambridge, sharing their passage with a flock of bleating sheep. Russia stayed by Vasonya and made no comment when America went to the bow, only calling him back when it was time to disembark. America could hear the soft click of the sabre sheath against the saddle edge as Russia swung himself up after him.

“Do you really think we’ll get attacked?” he asked, twisting in his seat to see Russia’s face.

The empire glanced down at him briefly before returning his gaze to the road. “If your people are foolish today, maybe yes. If not, maybe no.” He paused, then added. “I hope no.”

People stared in Cambridge as well, with perhaps an even greater fury than they had in Boston. Several regiments of Russian troops were quartered with the people; America could feel the tensions between differing traditions, not to mention the stress of having _foreign soldiers in one’s house_ , building like a pressure in his chest whenever he thought about it.

“When do the soldiers leave?” America asked, watching a cluster of infantry salute them as they passed.

“When barracks builded,” Russia answered.

“Barracks?”

“Da. With us, military does not live with people. That is no good. They do not… understand each other.”

The explanation was rough, but serviceable, and a hundred questions jumped up like daffodils along the road. Did that mean Russia was leaving troops here forever? Where would the barracks go? Who was going to build them? Who was going to pay for them? He watched farmers in the field pause in their work, staring as they rode past, before they spat and resumed their toil.

They skirted a marshland and entered Menotomy, passing by Cooper’s Tavern as America directed them towards his home. Russia and France could’ve stayed there, and left America in his own space.

“There,” he pointed, sitting tall in the saddle. Several days away from home was more than enough, and the sight of the small grey house made his chest swell. He could hardly wait for Russia to dismount and set him on the ground, hobbling quickly to the kitchen door, barely using his crutch. Fumbling the key from his pocket, he scraped the lock open and pushed in.

Everything was as he left it. The wide fireplace that took up most of one wall was cold now, the embers burnt out in their abandonment. Thankfully no food had rotted—the meal America had been carefully cooking when France showed up had been turned over to his troops eager for something other than army rations. He tried not to look at the table were he had sat with England for the last time.

“America?”

He turned back to see Russia hesitating at the threshold. “You can come in, I guess.”

Russia ducked through the doorway, taking off his tricorner as he remained slightly stooped, too tall for the low ceiling. It made him look even more giant than he was. His gaze traveled over the space, over the wash basin, the shut pantry and narrow door leading to the servants’ stairs, the herbs drying by the window, cast iron pans and cooking utensils hung around the fireplace. None of the furniture in the kitchen was particularly nice, aiming for serviceable over attractive. In his mind, America dared Russia to say something mean, but Russia simply nodded.

“It’s good. Where is your room?”

“It’s- uh, upstairs, hold on—” He fled up the servants’ stairs, correctly judging them too narrow for Russia to follow directly, wincing at his ankle, and shut the door to his room quickly behind him. That bought him a little time, certainly.

His eyes darted over the bed and desk, and then he rushed around, gathering up his leather-bound journal and his tiny tins of dried peas, a silver snuffbox full of feathers and a quartz crystal he found in the fields. He heard Russia’s footsteps on the main stairs and he dug his fingers into a groove between two floorboards by the wardrobe, prying up the board to revel a small space beneath it. He shoved everything in, to join the long thin pipe Massassoit gave him so many decades before, and the tattered white dress that he was told had been his baptismal gown.

Russia knocked. “America?”

“Hold on!” He wedged the board back into place as quickly and as quietly as possible, standing as he called, “Okay, you can come in!”

Russia entered, still not fitting properly. He took in the sight of the messy bed and the large chest at its foot; the wardrobe half opened; the sturdy desk littered with crumpled papers, broken quills, and a neglected tea pot, among other things. His gaze lingered longest on the bookshelf, books stacked two deep on every row, and on America, trying to stand nonchalantly by the wardrobe as if he hadn’t just hidden all his most precious things in the crawl space between the floors.

If Russia had thoughts about the state of disorder, he didn’t share them. But a frown did knit his brow as he glanced back at the stairs, then to America again. “Who lives here?”

America blinked. “I do.” Wasn’t that obvious?

“ _Da, no—_ ” Russia made a small gesture with his free hand. “Who lives here with you?”

“Oh. No one; it’s just me,” he shrugged.

Russia’s frown deepened. “Who— eh…” Frustration clouded his face for a moment as he struggle to find the words. “Who care for you?”

America’s expression shifted to a matching frown. “I take care of myself,” he replied, crossing his arms.

“You?” Russia sounded incredulous. “You- cook, and farm, and clean, and-” he pantomimed sewing.

“Sometimes,” America grumbled. “Mrs. Baker helps too—she often invites me over for supper and washes my clothes with her family’s. I bring her all the vegetables I grow in my garden; she has cans of them all winter,” he added proudly.

Russia hummed. If he had further thoughts on the arrangement, he didn’t share them. “What about your horse—?”

America gasped. “Llewellyn! I almost forgot—” He darted around Russia and thundered down the stairs, wincing again as his ankle informed him that it wasn’t full healed yet and if he could not attempt to run the healing process would probably go much faster. He went past Russia’s horse, tethered to the fence, and scrambled over the rock wall separating his land from the Bakers’ next door.

“Where you are going?” America glanced back to see Russia hurrying to follow.

“To Llewellyn!” He didn’t slow, following the dirt driveway past the neighbouring house to the barn. Llewellyn’s stall was empty, but that wasn’t surprising—she was probably out to pasture with the Bakers’ plow horse Jeremy. Her saddle was still here, though a light coating of hay dust had settled over the worn leather.

“Don’t come any closer! Who are you and what are you doing here!”

America ignored his ankle’s complaints all together as he ran back to the barn door and the source of the shouting. Mrs. Baker stood outside her kitchen door, hunting musket cocked and leveled at Russia, frozen in his attempt to follow, his own pistol still holstered at his waist.

“Mrs. Baker don’t shoot!” America called. She whirled, dress skirts flaring around her and America’s heart leapt to his throat as the musket locked on him- but then she gasped, lowering the muzzle.

“Alfred! Where in the Lord’s name have you been!” Her relief gave way to a new wave of fear and she spun back to face Russia, who instantly bristled again. “Alfred, you run inside with the others, do you hear?”

“No, Mrs. Baker, don’t shoot him, he came here with me,” America explained quickly, limping up to her. “He’s not here to hurt anybody.”

She glanced down at him for a heartbeat. “You know this man?” She didn’t lower the gun.

“Yes. His name is Ivan Braginsky; he’s bringing me back to my house from Boston.” Which was mostly true.

Mrs. Baker hesitated. “Mrs. Tanner says she saw you captured by soldiers a few days ago; we’ve been worried sick.”

“Those were French soldiers; I’m okay now.” Which was kind of a lie, but America was certain that if Mrs. Baker shot Russia, she would get into so much trouble he couldn’t imagine it. “Please don’t shoot him.”

She bit her lip, looking back to Russia, still standing at a distance, weapons carefully not drawn. Mrs. Baker lowered her musket slowly. “I don’t like him being here.”

“Of course,” America agreed quickly. “I don’t like it either, to be honest. I’m sorry, Mrs. Baker; I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I just wanted to make sure Llewellyn was okay.”

She shared a strained smile. “We’ve had three groups of soldiers march through these last two weeks, trying to buy up horses with Russian money. When I saw him heading for the barn, I thought maybe they’d gotten impatient and were just going to steal them.”

America nodded. “Well, he’s got his own horse, that mare over there.” He pointed through the thin tree line by the rock wall towards his house. “But I’ll probably bring Llewellyn back to Boston with me.”

“You’re going back to Boston?” Mrs. Baker repeated, disapproval in her voice. A few feet away, Russia shifted; they both looked back to him. Mrs. Baker sighed. “Well, I want to hear what you’ve been up to, and I’ll not let some other ruffian’s poor manners ruin mine... Why don’t you— _both_ come in and I’ll put the kettle on. I’m sure Thomas and John have missed you something fierce.”

“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Baker!”

She nodded, glancing at Russia before giving America a tight smile as she went to the kitchen door.

America waved Russia over; he came, eying Mrs. Baker’s retreating form. “All of your women are so…?” he gestured vaguely, failing to find the word he wanted.

“She thought you were coming to steal the horses.” Russia snorted, and America continued. “She’s invited us in for tea—don’t scare anyone!”

Russia frowned, but didn’t reply. America led the way over to the kitchen door and stepped in—and staggered, almost falling as two boys ambushed him, embracing him tightly. “Ow ow ow— mind my ankle!” America yelped, half laughing over the tumultuous chorus of “where’ve ya been!” and “we thought you was dead!” Beyond the excitable pile of boys, he could see thirteen-year-old Rebecca and her much younger sister Elizabeth seated at the table with needlepoint. He tried to tip his hat to them. “Good afternoon, Miss Rebecca, Miss Elizabeth.”

Rebecca managed a nod, while Elizabeth just stared behind him; the younger boy John gasped and backed off America quickly, the eldest boy Thomas standing in a forced courage. “Ma…?”

Russia was once again framed in the doorway, towering under the low ceiling. Mrs. Baker’s house was a perfectly normal size—America was beginning to realize that Russia just made everything look small.

Russia pressed his tricorner to his stomach. “Good afternoon,” he murmured.

“This is Ivan Braginsky,” America jumped in quickly. “Mr. Braginsky, this is Mrs. Sarah Johnathan Baker, wife of Mr. Johnathan Baker. Her children, Rebecca; John; Thomas; and Elizabeth.”

The empire bowed. “Pleased to meet you.” America saw Rebecca shoot a quick look at her mother.

As Russia straightened, Thomas peered at the uniform. “Are you an officer?” John elbowed him, and he added, “Sir.”

Russia nodded. “Yes. Colonel.”

Thomas took a hesitant step forward. “Can I see your sword?”

Russia blinked, then nodded, crouching; their heads were almost level then. America watched the exchange intently—he didn’t think Russia was going to suddenly kill anyone, but… Russia slowly unsheathed half the blade, tilting the metal to catch the light. He held the grip reversed—America realized that Russia couldn’t draw the full length of the sabre unless he switched his hand first.

“Have you ever kill anyone with it?” Thomas asked.

Russia froze, mouth open—

“That’s quite enough, boys!” Mrs. Baker announced. “Why don’t you go help your father?”

They groaned but left, calling behind them, “Thanks for showing us your sword, sir!”

Russia straightened, something akin to relief on his face. But what did he have to feel relieved about?

Elizabeth remained sitting quietly at the table, her embroidery forgotten in her hands as Rebecca helped her mother set the table for tea. Then Rebecca was allowed to join them, and Elizabeth sent upstairs to work.

An awkward silence fell over the four of them as Rebecca poured tea; Russia plucked off his gloves and set them on the tabletop.

“Do you speak English, sir?” Mrs. Baker asked.

“Not really,” America answered before Russia had the chance. “I mean, he knows the basics, but…”

“Soon, I will speak English better,” Russia said. His hands busied themselves adding sugar to his tea.

Mrs. Baker nodded slightly, then turned her attention back to America. “Now you said you plan to return to Boston? Whatever for?”

America managed not to look at Russia. “There’s uh, things with the treaty that, need my attention,” he stumbled. It also wasn’t really a lie, he reasoned, just not all of the truth.

Mrs. Baker seemed unconvinced. “Does Mr. Kirkland know about all of this?”

He struggled to speak around a sudden lump in his throat. “Yes.” Even if England didn’t know yet, he would soon—then they’d turn the tides on France and Russia. Until then he’d have to play along. “Has he been by while I was away?”

“Mr. Kirkland? Ah, no, he— last I heard he was also in Boston.” Her head tilted very slightly. “When you said you were staying in Boston, I assumed you were with him…”

America felt Russia shift minutely beside him. None of his outward movements had changed, but America had the sudden sense to watch his words. “No, we’re- boarding separately. He’s been very busy, concluding the treaty. I’m sure I’ll see him soon,” he added, with a sideways glance at Russia, who sipped his tea and said nothing. He saw Rebecca watching him out of the corner of his eye, and knew she was just barely holding back questions.

“So!” America chirped with a forced brightness, refusing to let the silence that uncurled after his last statement take root. “How have you been, ma’am? How’s Mr. Johnathan?”

And with that he dragged the conversation away from all the uncomfortable questions to which he didn’t have good answers. He couldn’t tell Mrs. Baker about what the treaty actually said—rather, what it meant for him. She knew England was a ‘special adviser’ to His Majesty, and that America was his ward, but nothing more concrete about their actual natures. He didn’t know how to explain that thanks to a single piece of paper, he might never see England again.

So he asked about the cow and crops, how Mr. Johnathan’s recovery was coming along—he had taken a bullet to the hip in a battle against a mainly Russian force. He survived, unlike so many others, but was left with a pronounced limp and the need for a cane. The boys and the indentured servant were struggling to pick up the work that the husband just couldn’t manage anymore. When this came up, Russia at least had the good grace to look apologetic, and murmured a wish for his health and recovery. Mrs. Baker accepted it with a short nod.

They finished the tea; Russia thanked Mrs. Baker for her hospitality, and she waved it off. America saw her calculating when she paused, then she sent Rebecca to bring in Llewellyn from the pasture. They lingered by the kitchen door again as she ran off.

Mrs. Baker pushed herself to play hostess for just a stretch longer. “You’ll forgive me for asking, sir, but are all your people so tall?”

Russia blinked, then chuckled, dipping his mouth below the lip of his scarf for a moment. “Some people. It is not rare, but also not common. Houses here- they look small.” He gestured as if depicting a ceiling. “But still very beautiful.”

America spoke over Mrs. Baker’s thanks. “The houses aren’t small; you’re just huge.”

Russia shrugged, continuing, “Farms also look different. But good. And here there are different trees, sometimes. Nature is also very beautiful here. And so warm…”

Mrs. Baker arched a brow. “Warm? It’s only mid-April.”

“Yes, but with us, still we have snow now, in my lands.”

She pressed a hand over her heart. “God bless,” she muttered.

Rebecca returned, leading Llewellyn. America scowled when he realized he couldn’t hold the lead rope and manage his crutch at the same time, begrudgingly handing over Llewellyn to Russia. The scowl remained fixed in place in the barn, as Russia brushed down Llewellyn and tacked her. The fact that Llewellyn submitted to all of this without a fuss made America feel almost betrayed, frowning as Russia whispered words he didn’t understand to the gentle creature. When Russia set America in the saddle, he handed him the reins, but kept the lead rope. No chance of heroic getaways.

As they passed back by the kitchen door, Mrs. Baker came out again. “Here, Alfred, take these,” she said, tucking a tin and a bread loaf wrapped in cloth into the saddlebags. “I made molasses twists yesterday.”

“Thank you, ma’am!” America said. He leaned down to let her take his face in her hands and kiss the top of his hair.

“You take care now, understand?” she instructed.

“Yes, ma’am, I will,” he answered solemnly. Behind her, he could see Rebecca and Elizabeth in the kitchen doorway; he waved, calling as Russia led them back to his own yard, “God keep you and bless you!”

Russia remained silent until they reached the house. “Do you need anything?” He gestured towards the door.

“How long am I staying in Boston?”

He saw Russia hesitate—he couldn’t tell if it was from language or something else. “Tomorrow.”

America dismounted with help, and vanished inside for a few minutes, returning with a rucksack he packed into the saddlebags. Russia unhooked the lead line and mounted his own horse, then steered them towards the road. America twisted around in the saddle to watch his house fall away behind them. An odd feeling bubbled up in his chest, and he tried to ignore it.

“Mrs. Baker is very nice,” Russia commented after a few minutes.

“Yeah, she looks after me,” America replied, staring off into the trees. “England gives her a few pounds every couple of months, to help with food and if I need new clothes or whatever. I’m like the strange son who lives next door instead of upstairs. I hate to bother her though…” He looked back to Russia. “Is England really in Boston?”

Russia stared ahead. “Yes.”

Something painful spiked through him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It is more easy, if you don’t know.”

“That’s stupid,” America snapped. Now that he was on his own horse, he felt like they had even footing. “Where is he?”

Russia glanced at him, brow furrowed. “In Boston—”

“No, _where_ in Boston?”

The empire sighed. America glared until Russia answered, “Hancock Manor.”

America choked on a cry of dismay. They had gone past the Hancock Manor when they toured Boston; it overlooked the Common. God, what if England had seen them through the windows? He must’ve thought America had betrayed him. “I have to see him!”

“No.”

He expected that; fury still swamped him. “You can’t do this! You can’t just forbid me from ever seeing him!”

“If you see England,” Russia began to reply, tone infuriatingly calm, “you will become upset—”

“I’m already upset!” he shouted, gripping the reins. His horse whickered, ears pivoting to focus on him. “Let me see him!”

“No.”

America kicked Llewellyn into a gallop. He heard Russia shout something in Russian; he’d bet money it was a curse. His ankle screamed protest as he stood in the saddle, feeling Llewellyn’s hooves pound the dirt road beneath them. He glanced back to see Russia gaining and felt his heart leap to his throat. His horse was almost two hands taller than Russia’s horse! But Llewellyn hadn’t been worked lately and Russia’s had spent a season campaigning, and the difference showed. America urged Llewellyn forward as Vasonya’s nose nudged into his vision—then Russia leaned impossibly far off his saddle and grabbed Alfred’s reins, wrenching Llewellyn sideways into Vasonya. Their bodies crashed together, crushing America’s good ankle between them for an instant as Russia hauled them both to a stop.

“ _Chto chyort vos’mi s toboi? Pytaesh’sya poluchit’ sebe ubil?_ ” Russia demanded angrily, refusing to let Llewellyn shy away from the contact.

America jerked his ankle free. “I can’t understand you,” he snapped, rolled his ankle experimentally. Not re-damaged.

Russia took a breath and held it, then warned, “Do that again, and you will sit with me.” He held out the reins.

America snatched them back. “Don’t touch my horse.” But he didn’t bolt again.

They rode in silence almost the entire way back from Menotomy. America thought about England, not even out of town but in Hancock Manor. He wondered why the Englishman hadn’t tried to visit. Probably he had tried, America reasoned, but France and Russia turned him away. God, if only he had known when he had tried to escape that first night—he wouldn’t have wasted time trying to get back to Memotomy. Armed with this new knowledge though… Rage burned down to glowing coals. He had a plan now.

They rounded a corner to discover yet another bare patch of road, a straightaway just wide enough for two carriages to pass.

Russia straightened in his saddle and dared a glance. “You know, tricks?”

America looked him over. “What do you mean?”

“Tricks, _kak_ , on horse,” Russia gestured. Vasyonya’s ears flicked back attentively. “Like maybe, to stand?”

He arched a brow. “To stand on a horse? What, while it’s moving?”

“ _Da_.”

The man was serious, he realized. America tilted his head incredulously. “Who does that?”

Russia gave a small smile, then leaned forward to whisper something to his horse, before nudging her into a trot, then a canter, breaking ahead of the group. America watched, his mouth slowly opening as Russia tucked his feet under him on the saddle, and then stood, reins gripped in one hand. He wheeled around on the road and came back, still standing—America gasped when Russia fell, but realized instantly that the move was intentional as Russia slid wholly from the saddle, running alongside his horse for a few beats before leaping back into the saddle as the pair neared America.

“How did you learned to do that?” America pressed the moment Russia pulled Vasyonya back into a walk. He repeated himself, a touch slower, and Russia tried not to smile.

“ _Kazak_. They are people, who live in my country. They know many tricks with horses. I learned, hundreds of years before.”

“Who taught you how to ride?”

The moment of hesitation confused America. “Someone very good with horses,” Russia answered shortly, not looking at him. “You want to learn?”

His yes caught in his throat. He absolutely wanted to learn, but he wasn’t- they weren’t friends. He wasn’t going to be Russian; he was going to figure out a way to get to England and escape. He forced himself to say, “A proper Englishman doesn’t ride like that.”

Russia’s expression fell. “I see.” America’s stomach twisted, and he didn’t know why.

They reached the inn before evening fell and parted ways, though Russia saw America all the way to his bedroom door. He figured the nation must’ve noticed that his ankle was nearly better, and worried than America would try to run again. Now that he had his horse, and he knew England was in Boston…

He didn’t say a word about the escort, and turned over escape plans in his head once more.

—

 

“I want the guard on the manor doubled, and a guard stationed directly outside of America’s room,” Russia stated without preamble as he entered the sitting room. “And possibly one beneath the window.”

France frowned. “Why, what happened?” Next to him on the sofa, Canada looked from one nation to the other, and nibbled on his taffy.

Russia sat opposite them, nodding a hello to Canada. “America knows Angliya is at Hancock Manor.”

“Oh- dammit, Russie; I knew that trip was a bad idea,” France huffed.

“It was necessary,” Russia defended.

“There is nothing of his that cannot be replaced—”

Russia shook his head, interrupting, “The transition is going to be difficult enough as it is; I want to avoid adding complications.”

“Too late for that,” France snorted. “How did he find out?”

Russia sat on the sofa and told him of the semi-official governess next door, ruefully recounting her willingness to pick up a musket. France arched a brow but didn’t comment. The silence rested a moment before he chased it off.

“Today is full of good news then—I found a mouse amongst my clothes earlier.”

Russia grunted. France had no love for rodents, but mice weren’t bad. “Is it still there?”

“No, I got rid of it,” France state triumphantly. “Be proud.”

“Very proud,” Russia appeased. It was a legitimate accomplishment for France; when a mouse got into the food chest in camp, he had upended the table in his haste to get away. After his aide-de-camp had wasted several minutes fishing out the terrified creature, France had order the chest’s entire contents thrown away, despite the shortages.

France allowed himself a grin, then asked, “So I take it America has settled back into fury?”

“More or less,” Russia sighed. He knew America couldn’t be angry all the time—he had seen the colony in more pleasant moods, rare though they were. Constant rage was exhausting to maintain, and exhausting to witness. “I want to leave him alone for breakfast. He will prefer that, and it allows us to discuss tomorrow’s plans.”

France nodded, crossing his legs at the knee. “If we converse in French, he’s unlikely to understand- but I know you’re cautious. Have you given any thought to how you’re going to manage America tomorrow?”

“I have an idea. I will tell you later.” It would absolutely work, and France would think he had lost his mind. He stood. “I’m going out with the men to continue preparations; can I trust that you’ll strengthen the guard?”

“Yes, yes,” France dismissed with a wave of his hand. “I will see you at breakfast, if I don’t see you later tonight.”

Russia snorted at the undercurrent in France’s words. “We shall see,” he replied, then took his leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Chto chyort vos’mi s toboi? Pytaesh’sya poluchit’ sebe ubil?"-- What the hell is wrong with you? Trying to get yourself killed?


	6. Boarding

Russia must’ve known America would try escape again, because it was impossible to leave his room without someone noticing. The guard now standing outside the door followed America whenever he left, including out to the necessary. He wanted to ball up his fists and howl, but he kept the urge locked in his chest. He could be patient; Russia couldn’t keep a guard on him forever.

That night he dreamt of the creek near his house, where he’d sail the toy wooden ship England had given him. The creek was small and bubbling, and the ship navigated the waters well—until a bullfrog jumped from the bank and crashed onto the deck, the force of landing causing the ship to list to one side. America scrambled along the bank, skunk cabbage crushed beneath his feet, but the ship took on water too quickly and sank completely. The frog swam away, oblivious to the souls lost below the murky water. —

Russia did not appear the next morning, and to America’s pleasant surprise, a maid brought him a breakfast tray, eggs and toast, potatoes and a cup of porridge. He fell on the food like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, savouring the familiar taste. The fact that he had been eating French food for the last several days only made it taste better.

Of course, the good morning could not last—when the maid returned to collect the tray, she informed him that Mr. Braginsky requested his presence. America sighed, shelved his mental plans of escape for the time being, and went. He knocked on the door once before pushing it open.

Russia looked up from his seat on the sofa. “America, please sit,” he gestured to the sofa opposite him on the other side of the low table, which was set as if for tea. An _English_ tea, with scones and butter, clotted cream and jam. Russia’s cup was already full, and as America cautiously took his seat, Russia poured him a cup as well.

America glanced around as he picked up his tea. “Where are France and Canada?” Breakfast alone in his room had been nice, but one-on-one tea time with Russia was not his idea of a good morning.

“They are at docks. Very soon ship will leave for Paris,” Russia explained, drinking his own tea.

“They’re leaving?” America asked, brow raised.

“Yes.”

“I see,” he nodded politely, drowning his glee in a mouthful of tea. Soon France would be away and he wouldn’t have to deal with his snobby attitude! Bit of a shame that Canada was leaving too, but getting France out of his own territories was more important. He felt lighter than he had for days, weeks even, since England first told him that the war was over.

Russia watched him for a beat, then sipped his tea as well. “From Paris, ship will go to Sankt-Peterburg.”

“Sank- Sank-Petersburg?” America repeated. “Where’s that?”

“Sankt-Peterburg is in Russia.”

“Is it your capital?”

Russia shook his head. “Yes and no; it is capital now. Moskva was capital.”

“Moskuva?”

“Moskva, yes. But court is in Sankt-Peterburg.” Russia leaned forward and snagged a scone, slicing it neatly in half before covering it with butter and jam.

“Why?”

“Well. Moskva is very old city, and Sankt-Peterburg is very new city. Court likes new better, maybe.” He shrugged, taking a bite of scone.

America nodded again, then dared to venture a question he actually cared about. “So… does that mean you’re leaving too?”

Russia took another bite of scone. America kept his nose buried in his tea. Russia swallowed, and followed the scone with a sip of tea, before setting his cup down and answering, “Yes.”

America’s breath rushed out all at once; a drop of tea fell on his waistcoat. Russia was leaving, they were all leaving! Soon this nightmare would be over—and as soon as they left, he could go find England and they’d sort out what they were going to do about this treaty. He drained his tea, hiding his grin in the cup until he could force his expression smooth.

“We will stay in Paris for one month, and then go to Sankt-Peterburg,” Russia continued, halfway done with his scone.

“France is going to Sank-Petersburg?” America bounced his leg; he wasn’t sure how much longer he could do small talk, not when he wanted to race through the halls hooting and hollering.

“No.” Russia met his gaze and held it. “You go to Sankt-Peterburg.”

The bouncing stopped. “I- beg your pardon?”

“You go to Sankt-Peterburg,” Russia repeated. “With me.”

America couldn’t seem to close his mouth. He set his empty cup and saucer down on the table without looking, staring at Russia. “I’m not going to Sank-Petersburg,” he said, finding his tongue.

“I know it is far away—” Russia began.

“I’m not going.” 

“—But you need to learn things, which you cannot learn here—”

“I’m not, going.”

“And you need to meet Her Majesty—”

“Are you listening to me?! I’m not going to Sank-Petersburg!” America shouted, pitching to his feet. The world shifted sideways and he staggered, bracing himself on the low table. His legs felt weak. “Oh my god,” he muttered, dread covering him like a cloak. His eyes refocused on the tea cup, and he looked up at Russia, eyes wide as he whispered. “What did you do?”

“I’m sorry, America,” Russia said, sliding off the sofa to kneel by him.

America shook his head, trying to clear the dizziness, stumbling back a step.

“I’m sorry,” Russia said again. “I did not know how to get you onto ship.”

“You…” He couldn’t quite remember what he wanted to say, only that he didn’t want to be there, and Russia had— he— Russia caught America before he could crumple to the floor, holding him gingerly. “ _Prosti menya_ ,” he murmured, before reaching over and flipping America’s cup upside down on the saucer. Then he stood, adjusted America so the boy’s head rested on his broad shoulder, and carried him out.

—

France gasped when Russia emerged from the carriage with America in his arms.

“Russie! What have you done!” he hissed in amazement, coming to Russia’s side as he approached the boarding plank. Russia didn’t look at him. “I told you what I was planning.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually _do_ it!” France exclaimed, peering at America’s face. The boy was still unconscious. “What are you going to do when he wakes up?”

Russia cut ahead of him up the boarding plank, forcing France to wait for his reply until they reached the deck. “We should be far enough out to sea that he can’t jump overboard and try swimming back.”

“I am beginning to think you didn’t plan very far ahead. I meant for the length of our _four-month journey_.”

Russia didn’t answer, skirting around throngs of sailors ferrying the last of the supplies on-board. Thinking about the four months they’d be at sea sent him into a complete deadlock. Russia didn’t know if America had ever been outside the colonies before—if not, then this would be the first time he experienced the all-unsettling fidget of _not-home_.

And there were the preparations for court to address. He knew America needed to begin his lessons; he wasn’t sure how quickly he could get America to suffer them. Especially since no tutors were making this trip, leaving Russia to teach everything himself. That would change once they got to Peterburg; he’d find the best tutors for America, in every subject. But until then, it was just him. He… wasn’t convinced that would work well.

France followed him below deck, and showed him which room was his. Rank did so have its benefits—while he wasn’t in the captain’s quarters like he would be on his own ship, the small room France gave him was private and had a latch lock on the inside. Compared to the sailors sleeping thirty to a hall, hammocks hung three thick from the ceiling, the room was pure luxury.

He thanked France; when the man didn’t leave, he followed up his thanks with a pointed look, to which France huffed and retreated, shutting the door behind him. Russia felt his shoulders untense an inch.

He laid America in the hammock, tucking him in and brushing a stray lock of hair off his face. France thought he didn’t understand the ramifications of his actions, but that wasn’t true. He knew there’d be hell to pay once America woke up. The likelihood that’d the boy would jump overboard wasn’t high, but for some reason they hadn’t counted on his attempted escape in Boston. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He could appreciate America’s stubbornness, as unhelpful as it was.

Russia straightened and turned to consider the small space, ducking a bit as he had to when standing below deck. He inspected the hooks screwed into the ceiling beams. The ship’s carpenter could set up another pair once America woke up, for a second hammock. A single hammock could hold both his weight and America’s, but Russia had no illusions about the boy’s willingness to share sleeping space.

While America ‘slept’, Russia unpacked, to settle the flutter in his stomach. His main chest sat next to a small desk under the porthole, and from it he retrieved his letters box and parchment. The room lacked shelves of any kind, so his books remained out of sight, and he was forced to hang the Cross on a flat wall instead of in the corner as was proper. Two icons went up as well: Theotokos the Mother of God and Saint Nikolai. Birch branches would not last the voyage, so he carefully tucked small pine branches around them. His violin case stood in the corner by America’s things.

After returning from America’s small home the previous day, Russia had ordered a unit of five men to go to the house and pack up all of the child’s personal things—clothes, books, toys, instruments, everything. The resulting three chests lined all the spare wall space in the room and left only a little floor. Russia had organized the trunk contents last night; clothes in one chest, books in another, toys and instruments in the last. He had even ordered that America’s horse be brought; she was stabled with the other horses on a transport ship in the fleet. Russia hoped the sight of his belongings would ease America’s distress somewhat.

With that, he was settled in. A quick check on America confirmed that he was still fast asleep. Russia nodded to himself, shutting the door behind him as he left. He likely had only another hour at most of quiet before America woke up. He should savour it.

\--

The steady rock, back and forth, seemed both distant and close. He felt warm and safe, tucked up in England’s arms, even if he wasn’t well, stomach nauseous from eating too many sweets at the governor’s house. England had sighed and told him it served him right, but he picked him up anyways, carried him around the first floor and fed him a bit of candied ginger to settle his stomach…

But that wasn’t right… His brow furrowed and he shifted, feeling sheets pressing down on him. It wasn’t sweets that made him sick. He didn’t have sweets yesterday, he had—

America lurched upright and vertigo shoved him sideways; he fell backwards. The rocking, the ship to Paris—

He fumbled off the sheets, struggling to clamber out of the hammock and instead fell to the floor with a thunk. His legs trembled and he glanced around the room frantically, eyes fixing on the door. He was on the ship already, Russia had said that’s why he did it, hadn’t he? To get him on the ship.

He wrenched open the door and heard wood splinter, ignored it as he stumbled down the hall towards the stairs, light spilling down into the gloom. Terror burnt away the mental fog and clogged his throat as his legs remembered how to work; he scaled the stairs partially on all fours in his rush, bursting onto the deck—

There, on the horizon, a ribbon of green. America flung himself to the railing, dodging crew members and ducking under ropes and rigging, slamming into the wood for a full stop. They couldn’t possibly be at sea yet, he hadn’t been unconscious that long, just a few minutes surely. But there was the shore, his wide beautiful shore and the city of Boston slowly fading off the edge of the world and it was too far to swim, too far and he’d never make it but- but what did it matter? He had to _try_ , had to make it back. The thick wood of the rail was almost too smooth to catch under his palms as he hoisted himself up, swung a leg over—

Strong hands gripped under his arms and hauled him backwards; bits of wood came off under his nails as he tried to dig into the railing, shouting and cursing and kicking, eyes fixed on his slice of coastline. Bile lurched up the back of his throat and he choked it down. Russia set him down and didn’t let go; America strained against the lock of his grip but the man didn’t budge, giving him a sharp shake that finally tore his gaze away from the shore, shocking him into silence.

Russia spoke, voice hard—he had been speaking since he pulled America off the railing, but none of it came through. “—cannot swim to land, we are far away now, you would die. You do not want to die in sea. You _cannot_ swim to land—”

The world slowly went fuzzy; he shook his head in disbelief and the edges didn’t sharpen. He stopped listening, clapped his hands over his ears and looked back to shore—was it thinner now? Thinner than it was even a minute ago? He felt his throat try to tear. His knees folded and Russia didn’t hold him up, letting him sink to the deck.

He dragged in two, three shallow, shuddering breaths, feeling his skin crawl. He bolted; from the corner of his eye he saw Russia lunge and miss. He raced to the rigging and threw himself on it, scrambling up the knotted rope net as fast as he ever did a tree. Russia yelled after him, demanding he come down. America ignored him, blinking back tears as he set his jaw.

When he reached the crow’s nest, the French sailor stationed there just stared. America ignored him too, looking out back to shore. The ribbon was wider again. If he stayed in the nest, he would see his shore for as long as possible. Tears welled up again, but when he opened his mouth it wasn’t screams that came out—it was music.

He sang God Save the Queen at the top of his lungs, and followed with Rule, Britannia! The sea wind whipped his words away the moment they hit the air; he imagined the songs winging their way to England, and soon he found himself singing through tears, voice threatening to break as he sang Britons, Strike Home. He sang every patriotic song he could think of— Hail to the Homeland, Here’s a Health unto His Majesty, Over the Hills and Far Away…

Neither the sailor on watch, nor Russia from below, stopped him.

—

Russia stared up at the crow’s nest. America seemed content to stand there. When he initially clambered up the rigging, Russia worried the boy would try to throw himself off the ship. Or to the deck.

France strolled up next to him, shading his eyes to look. “I heard him hollering all the way from my rooms. Canada was very distressed, you know.”

Russia didn’t answer. They watched America in silence a moment.

“Is he singing?” France asked curiously.

“I think so.”

The wind dropped a bit and they caught a snippet of the tune. France’s lip curled. “Oh, he’s singing Rule, Britannia. How rude.”

“I should get him down,” Russia murmured. “He’s not dressed warmly enough to be in the crow’s nest. He’ll catch a cold.” 

France turned to him. “Let him be. He’ll come down eventually.”

Russia glanced at him. “How do you know?”

France searched his eyes for a heartbeat; Russia resisted the urge to look away. “He’s mourning,” France replied, before turning and going below deck.

Russia looked back to the crow’s nest, before he sighed and went to find a book. He could wait out a child.

—

When the shore dipped below the horizon, America bowed his head to his arms and sobbed.

Below, Russia bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to keep reading.

—

The sobbing eventually slowed and stopped, leaving America with a tight headache. He glared at the patch of blond on the deck from above, knowing he’d be scolded the instant he came down. Luckily he had no intention to do so. Would a sly raccoon descend into the waiting jaws of the hounds? He thought not. If they wanted him, they’d just have to get their pompous selves up the rigging to fetch him.

He saw France stroll over a few times. They’d stare up at the crow’s nest—America didn’t look at them—and confer; then France would wander off and Russia would settle back down with his book. Canada came once, shading his eyes to peer up at the nest. He didn’t seem the least bit upset to be carted off from his home, but the French were impossible to understand.

As the sun sank towards his watery bed, America braced himself for a scuffle. Surely they wouldn’t permit him to remain in the nest overnight. He was stronger than he looked, much stronger than a usual child his size. He imagined them climbing up one by one, only for him to dislodge their fingers as they attempted to swing a leg into the nest, sending them tumbling down the rigging and—SPLASH!—into the water. France would scream like a baby, he was sure of it; Russia… He wasn’t sure how Russia would fall. Perhaps he wouldn’t make any noise at all, just crash into the water like a rock thrown through a window—silent until the point of impact.

No one came up the rigging. Russia vanished below deck as the light faded, and night fell.

The shrill boatswain’s whistle tracking the watch hours ensured he got no sleep. When the watch shifted, and shifted again, the sailors glanced at America—huddled up with his back to the railing, arms wrapped around his knees, staring at his shoes—and didn’t bother him. America ignored them as well, tucked up against the chilling sea breeze and the cold gnawing at his heart. His brain refused to work out what his next plan of action could possibly be; it was numb, offering not even distraction from the night, though occasionally it mustered up a flicker of torment.

An image of England arriving at the house only to find America missing, of him breaking down when he received the news that his son had been spirited away across the sea. The build was slow, like it had been when England told him about the end of the war: a silence, England unable to meet his eyes, fine lines crinkling around the corners as his lips thinned and pressed together in a vain attempt to choke back a sound of despair. Only this time, knowing that America had been stolen away, he would sink slowly to the floor, arms limp at his side, head bowed as he sobbed in the doorway to the house. Loud enough, perhaps catch the attention of Mrs. Baker. What would she think of it? No doubt she’d have no idea what happened until England told her. She was charged with keeping an eye on him; she’ll worry herself sick, thinking her ward’s vanished…

His eyes burned; he blinked. America glanced up at the sailor on watch—and gasped, looking past him.

The velvet black of the night sky was studded with an impossible number of stars, more than he’d ever seen in Boston. Some were huge, diamond baubles scattered amongst sweeping handfuls of stardust. They glittered white and red and blue, colours faint enough he wondered if he imagined them. And the Milky Way, a river of starlight arching across the sea from one horizon to the other, a precious belt to girdle the glory of heaven’s mantle. The night sky escaped true description—words like radiant and beautiful and glorified paled under the watch of the cold, distant stars, and America felt a lump in his throat at his inability to articulate the feeling that welled up in his chest. With the sky so wide, and he so small, he wondered if he could get lost in it, swallowed up by the perfect peace of God’s dwelling…

He laid on his back in the crow’s nest, staring at the stars visible to the right and to the left of the mast’s end, watching them bob this way and that from the rocking of the ship. He closed his eyes and imagined himself among them, a single passenger on a ship through the stars…

—

The piercing shrill of the boatswain’s whistle chased away the lingering wisps of dream. Something about hurling bottles of starlight at people, hearing them scream when the glass shattered, starlight splashing over them…

A well-worn jacket slipped off him when he sat up. He frowned at it, then looked up to see the sailor on duty without one. He felt his cheeks tint pink as he stood and cleared his throat. The man glanced back, and America held out the jacket.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

The sailor gave him a bemused smile. “ _De rien._ ”

“Right…” He peered down at the deck below and watched the men move about their work in the gray morning light before sunrise. He was hungry—he hadn’t felt it yesterday, but now his stomach reminded him that he only ate one meal the day before, and that would not do. He supposed remaining in the nest overnight had sufficiently demonstrated his extreme disapproval of this whole horrid venture.

He swung his legs over the nest railing and paused. The deck seemed farther below than when he first climbed up… He eased himself onto the rigging and began his descent, looking find his foot placement but then he could see just how far away the deck was. He was higher than he had ever gotten in a tree, much higher—what sort of tree was the mast _made_ from? He opted to stare straight ahead at it instead of the deck, feeling blindly with his foot for the next rung.

He missed, foot shooting through the rope to dangle in the open air, knuckles white as his feet scrambled for purchase without getting tangled up. He clung to the rigging, heart in his throat, and glanced down—he was still high off the deck. If he fell from this height, the landing would probably kill him, his brain informed him matter-of-fact. America wet his lips, checked the distance again—his stomach rolled—and took a deep breath. He was okay; it was fine. He’d just, pause for a moment, regain his composure, and then he’d finish climbing down, no problem.

He waited for his heart to stop racing. It didn’t.

—

“Good news! America has decided to come down out of the crow’s nest,” France declared. He nudged the door to his quarters closed with his hip, returning from morning call.

Russia grunted, not glancing up from his porridge. The whistles woke up him up every hour, on the hour, startling him from sleep with a lurch that signaled danger. Only there was no danger, just the ship keeping watch. He suffered the same problem on the way over. He’d readjust to it eventually…

France draped his captain’s coat off the back of his chair and sat down. “The bad news is that he appears to be stuck in the rigging.”

The spoon in his porridge stilled. “What?”

“America is stuck in the rigging,” France repeated. “He will go neither up nor down. I think he’s scared.”

Russia pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I would suggest leaving him there until he figures it out. If he’s going to disobey and get himself into trouble, he ought to learn how to get himself back out of it— Where are you going?” he asked, as Russia pushed back from the table.

“To get America.”

France huffed. “You’re going to teach him that he’s not responsible for his actions.”

“We will see,” Russia replied, and left. Responsibility for his actions would come later. America had been in his care for barely a week. He wasn’t going to let the child be terrified without good reason.

America was three-quarters of the way up the main mast rigging, more than high enough for a fall to kill him. Russia flagged down a passing mate and asked if anyone had tried to get him down.

“ _Oueh_ , _monsieur_ , earlier when the sails were trimmed. Laurent tried to pull him off the ropes but the boy kicked up a fuss—he doesn’t speak French, couldn’t understand Laurent was trying to help.”

Russia nodded, eyes on America again. The longer he was up there, the more tired his limbs would be, and the more panicked he’d get about falling… Russia left his coat on a barrel and started to climb.

America looked down the minute the rigging shifted. “No, stay away!” he shouted, clinging tighter as the ropes swayed.

Russia didn’t answer until he was level with America. His wide blue eyes tracked the slightest movement, and Russia saw exhaustion buried under the fear.

“Are you trying to kill me?” America demanded. “Leave me alone, I can get down just fine on my own!”

Russia managed not to snort. “I know,” he lied. “You do not need to- to show this. I will carry you—”

“No, I’ll fall!”

“You will not fall.”

America gripped the ropes tighter. The sea breeze tossed his hair, blowing bangs forward to shade his eyes. “Yes I will; you’ll drop me and I’ll fall and break my neck!”

Russia realized he had no idea if America had ever died before. Now was not the time to ask. “America, I will not drop you,” he continued calmly, still making no move for the colony. “I carry more heavy things than you. You will not fall. We go to deck together, and then we breakfast, yes?”

America hesitated, eying him. “If I come down, can I have cocoa with breakfast?”

Russia chuckled. “Yes, probably you can have cocoa.” He held out an arm, shifting closer on the rigging.

Another long hesitation, then America inched over, Russia softly encouraging him. America lunged the last gap, wrapping his legs as far around Russia’s torso as he could manage and his arms around Russia’s neck, face buried in a shoulder. The movement tugged his scarf an inch tighter; Russia took a calming breath, perfectly still, then settled a supportive arm under America and began their descent. He placed his feet carefully, didn’t let go of the rigging unless both were firmly planted, using the slight heel of his boots like a notch to hook the rope. America vibrated in his arms, tensing for the final brief moment when they were suspended almost directly over the rushing sea. Then Russia swung them over the deck again, and set America down.

The colony let out a shaky breath, then pulled his posture upright as if remembering himself. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “For your, assistance.”

Russia felt a smile quirk his lips; he bowed slightly to hide it. “You’re welcome,” he answered, because he didn’t yet know how to say it was unimportant in a way that didn’t trivialize the boy’s fear. “Now breakfast, yes?”

France gave him a disapproving look as they entered, before returning his attention to his coffee. When Russia sent France’s aide-de-camp to the cook for another cup of cocoa, France set down his own cup.

“You aren’t serious. You’re rewarding bad behaviour.”

Russia took his seat, noting the sour expression on America’s face as the language shift neatly shut him out of the conversation. “I am rewarding how still he was when I carried him down the rigging. If he had panicked, we both might’ve fallen.”

“Ridiculous…” France mumbled, but let it drop.

Canada joined them, hiding a yawn as he climbed into his seat. “I don’t like the whistles, Papa,” he confessed. France assured him that in a week he would hardly notice them.

They made arrangements for the morning—France wanted to start Canada’s tutoring now, before they got to Versailles. From what Russia had heard, Canada was an excellent pupil, quiet and studious and quick to grasp new information. He knew fencing and violin, had a fair hand at sketching and painting, and composed snippets of poetry about the wild forests of his home. France’s renaissance gem had already been cut; now he would polish it.

Russia glanced at America, already visibly bouncing back from his fright, and wondered if he wasn’t secretly a diamond. The thought of starting lessons immediately struck him as impossible—they barely had a common language between them. Once America spoke better French…

—

At the end of breakfast, America followed Russia down the hall, dismantling Russia’s accent to learn that they were sharing a room on the ship. The door to the room had been repaired from where the hinge had nearly been ripped out of the wood by America the day prior. The colony frowned at the space, smaller than France’s drawing room, and his eyes fell on the single hammock. He glanced back at Russia, eyes cautious.

Russia pointed to the large folded heap of fabric atop his own trunk. “It is second bed; it goes here,” he explained, gesturing to the rafters. Then Russia added, pointing, “Your things.”

America gasped, rushing over to the trunks and throwing them open. Clothes, books, his instruments— he dug through them, trying to catalog everything in his head and figure out what was left behind. The contents of the secret floorboard cubby were missing, but maybe that was for the best—it would never be corrupted by foreign hands.

“I bringed your horse too,” Russia said from over his shoulder. “She is on different ship, but…”

A rush of relief swept through him, followed by a lump forming in his throat. He sat back on his heels, still facing the trunks. “You planned this.”

It was a statement, not a question, but after a few seconds Russia answered anyways. “Yes.”

America nodded once. That’s why they went to Menotomy yesterday. He should’ve known it was a trap; why should Russia care about where he lived? He imagined Russian soldiers tearing through his house, grabbing every loose object of apparent importance and packing them away. Resentment curled his stomach. He didn’t want this.

He rose onto his knees and continued his mental catalog, shifting through his books. Russia shifted his weight; America ignored him. He hoped Russia drowned in that discomfort. He kinda hoped Russia would drown for real, him and France. Getting put under what was effectively house arrest in Boston had been bad enough, but he convinced himself he could suffer through until they left. But this… They had kidnapped him, to take him back to St. Petersburg for he didn’t know how long.

A thought struck him; he turned half way back to look at Russia. “Did you tell Mrs. Baker?”

“What-”

“Did you tell Mrs. Baker you were taking me away?” he demanded.

America saw the understanding on Russia’s face get chased off by guilt and knew the answer before Russia gave it. He scowled and turned back to the books. He spied a leather cover he didn’t recognize and pulled it out, flipping the book open. His heart stuttered to a painful stop before slamming into a quick staccato as his fingers trailed over the pages in silent awe.

England’s handwriting. Page after page—poems; short stories; snippets of wisdom condensed into two lines a piece; sketches of buildings covered in ivy, a rabbit, flowers by the roadside; favourite passages from the Bible; songs about the sea; Shakespeare sonnets. The commonplace book wasn’t more than a finger thick but every page was filled with England’s precise, sharp pen. America blinked back another round of tears and hugged the tome to his chest.

“How long?” he croaked. He looked back—Russia had taken a seat at the desk under the porthole; he hadn’t seen the commonplace.

Russia’s brow knitted together. “How long…?”

“How long are you going to keep me in St. Petersburg?” he asked, voice shaking.

The empire’s gaze drifted up towards the ceiling as if he could see the answer carved into the thick beams. “I don’t know,” he answered.

America turned away, hunching his shoulders as he resisted the tears. He stood, book in hand, and announced, “I’m going on deck. To read.”

He could feel Russia’s eyes on him, fixed on the back of his head as he opened the door and stepped out. When the door was shut, he sprinted, pumping his legs as if movement alone would chase out the tightening in his chest. He scrambled up the steps and raced to the main mast, ignoring the blur in his vision until he found a space between barrels where he could wedge himself. The commonplace he tucked between his knees and his chest as he crouched over double, trying not to make a sound as he cried.

—

If it weren’t for France’s constant chatter, luncheon would have been a silent affair. America picked at his food, eyes haunted, lost in his own thoughts as the meal carried on around them. The book he had been reading lay across his lap, protected from spills by a cloth napkin. He returned to the deck without a word after the meal completed, and Russia asked France to remind the crew to keep a half eye on him. If the colony started to scale the rigging, or climb over the railing, they were to stop him at once.

America found another seat, boxes this time, laid out such that he had a backrest of sorts. He flipped open to a random page and read:

If all the ships I have at sea  
Should come a-sailing home to me,  
From sunny lands, and lands of cold,  
Ah well! the harbor could not hold  
So many sails as there would be  
If all my ships came in from sea.

If half my ships came home from sea,  
And brought their precious freight to me,  
Ah, well! I should have wealth as great  
As any king who sits in state,  
So rich the treasures that would be  
In half my ships now at sea.

If just one ship I have at sea  
Should come a-sailing home to me,  
Ah well! the storm clouds then might frown,  
For if the others all went down  
Still rich and proud and glad I’d be,  
If that one ship came back to me.

If that one ship were down at sea,  
And all the others came to me,  
Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,  
With glory, honor, riches, gold,  
The poorest soul on earth I’d be  
If that one ship came not to me.

O skies be calm! O winds blow free--  
Blow all my ships safe home to me.  
But if thou sendest some awrack  
To never more come sailing back,  
Send any--all that skim the sea--  
But bring my love-ship home to me.

He blinked back more tears, staring up at the billowing masts. He had always thought that his first trip to Europe would be with England, to England. That England would teach him everything he knew about ships and sailing; America knew how to tie knots already, and he’d finally have a chance to put that knowledge to proper use. He’d be England’s honourary first mate, helping to pass along orders and keep everything running smoothly and the crew would adopt him as one of their own.

The boatswain’s whistle signaled the end of a watch; America looked on as the now off-duty crew trampled below deck and a fresh third of the men came up. The final third of the crew was probably below deck, napping between shifts. The men harassed each other, a light shove, a soft punch. America couldn’t understand the French, but he could tell no one was actually arguing.

He wanted that. He wanted the- _camaraderie_ , the mutual understanding that sprang up between men when placed in the same situation. Every time England visited, America had asked, “Can I come now?” And England had always answered, “No, America- when you’re older.” And now America got to sit on the deck of a ship that wasn’t his own, head towards a country that wasn’t his own, be surrounded by people and feel more alone than ever.

Some of the men gathered around a crate a few feet down from America. Someone had produced a pair of dice, and the games had commenced. America listened to the incomprehensible French behind him, following the tide of the game from the cheers and groans of dismay. He couldn’t focus on his book.

After a particularly triumphant shout overlaid with what America suspected was strong cursing, he gave up trying to read and went over, trying to peer around the cluster of men to see the focus. A few people noticed him and made a bit of room, and he squeezed up to the front.

The crate doubling as a table was littered with chips of wood and ivory, scraps of paper, all shoved to one side so the dice had space. One of the wood chips had a mermaid carved on it, long-haired and bare-chested, and America glanced away reflexively. He watched a dice roll, heard the muffed reactions, then another, the dice passing back and forth between a pair of men crouched by crate.

One noticed him. “ _Voules-tu jouer?_ ”

He tried not to fidget as all eyes turned to him. “Sorry, I don’t- I don’t speak French—”

The player closest to him grabbed the dice from the other and repeated the question slower, dice held out in his upturned palm. America shifted his weight, then took the dice. The man grinned, revealing a missing tooth.

“ _Bon, tu voules lancer des sept-_ ” Instantly about half the men made loud hushing sounds; one man whacked the speaker in the shoulder. He waved them off with an irritated look.

America glanced at the sailors. “Um…”

Another slow repeat, “ _Lancer-_ ” he mimicked rolling the dice. “ _-des sept_.” A few men scowled as the speaker held up seven fingers.

America nodded, then tossed the dice onto the table. When they settled on a two and a five, the surrounding men exploded into a mix of angry groans and hoots of triumph. The sailor who handed him the dice gave his shoulders a little congratulatory shake as someone patted him on the back. America grinned, and the man announced with a laugh, “ _Il joue avec moi, mon porte-bonheur._ ”

The sailor, who introduced himself as Martin, coached America through the remaining rules and soon they had garnered a neat little pile of chips. When a new game started, there was a brief but heated argument of who America would play with; America promised he would play with everyone if they’d like, and one amongst the men who knew a smattering of English translated for the rest, to their approval. He wondered if he’d be kicked out of playing if his luck didn’t hold; when it inevitably didn’t, the men didn’t chase him off. He stayed, simultaneously the oldest and youngest player in the group, and for the first time in a long time, felt included.

He thought, probably, that he shouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot take credit for the lovely poem included in this chapter. The poem "My Ships" is the work of (ironically) American poet Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919), who aside from being a fantastic popular poet was also an occultist.


	7. Nightmares and Charms

France walked into Russia’s room without knocking. “America’s rash of bad behaviour continues,” he declared.

Russia rolled his eyes and set down his quill, twisting in his seat. “I hope you will not make a habit of coming into my room unannounced,” he commented mildly. “Why are you upset?”

“I’m not upset,” France said. “I merely wished to inform you that America has taken to gambling.”

Russia arched a brow. “Has he.”

“ _Oui._ He’s playing dice with the men.” There was a whiff of triumph to his voice.

“For money?”

“No-”

“Then it hardly counts,” Russia dismissed, turning back to his work.

“Is that really the attitude you want to take about this?” He could hear the frown in France’s words.

“Yes. Perhaps in God’s infinite mercy this will cause America to start picking up French.”

France hummed. His footsteps neared, and then he leaned over Russia’s shoulder. “What are you working on?”

“A duet,” Russia answered, resisting the urge to hide the sheet from prying eyes. “For piano and violin.”

“Ah… Pity we lack a piano on board. But we can play once we reach Versailles.”

Russia nodded, aware of a loose ribbon of France’s hair draping over his shoulder as the empire continued to scan the staff. Russia turned his head and let his lips brush over France’s cheek; a faint smile tilted France’s lips.

France tapped the sheet music. “I would check these stanzas; I’m not sure that will blend as nicely as you’re hoping.” He gave Russia a quick kiss. “But other than that it looks lovely.”

Russia licked his lips. “Where is Canada?”

“Working on his assignments. Why—” France’s reply was cut off as Russia twisted in his seat to lock his lips with France’s. France broke the kiss, gesturing for Russia to stand and when the Arctic nation had done so, France slid his arm’s around the other’s waist. His hands slipped down farther in the back and gave a squeeze; Russia caught France’s lips again as he threaded his hands between frock coat and waistcoat.

It did not take them particularly long to progress from standing to tangled up in a hammock, where they remained after several breathless, grasping minutes in which France whispered fervent encouragement into Russia’s ear. Then he tucked himself up in the crook of Russia’s arm and wormed his fingers under the half-buttoned waistcoat and chemise, trailing soft touches over trembling skin. Russia buried his nose in France’s hair—he could smell lilac and faint lavender, and underneath that, sandy southern beaches along the Mediterranean. He exhaled, and told himself the shakiness lingered from the previous activity, not borne of envy.

“I think your son knows about us,” he murmured.

France hummed. “Of course he does, cher. He’s not blind.”

Russia thought America might be in the dark yet. He seemed, a little less observant than perhaps ideal, but that might simply be a result of never needing to be observant to get by. That would change.

A watch whistle. France gave him another kiss, then sat up; Russia frowned after him, as the patch of warmth left behind quickly faded. They rearranged their clothes, and Russia flipped the hammock upside down.

“I hope you have extra hammocks on this ship,” he said. “That was America’s.”

France stared. “His own hammock? Spoiled. Rotten.”

Russia gave an exasperated sigh. “Dinner,” he prompted. “And don’t harass America about playing dice with the crew.”

They had coq au vin and Russia savoured each bite, knowing the fresh meals would not last long on the trip—the live animals aboard would eventually give way to porridge and gruel. He watched America from the corner of his eye; quiet, but that was likely do to the language barrier. He seemed overall brighter in his demeanour, eating his food without complaint, sporadically glancing at the book in his lap. France left him alone for the course of the meal, so when Russia excused both himself and his colony, America was still in fairly good spirits. At least, good compared to his previous moods.

Once in the room, America perched on the corner of Russia’s trunk to take advantage of the thrown candlelight from the desk and read. Russia added a few more questionable stanzas to the duet—he’d have to come back and edit them later, but… He glanced at the colony.

“France said you played dice, earlier.”

America’s shoulders hunched. “Yeah, what of it?”

Russia shrugged. “It was fun?”

“Yes…”

“Good,” he nodded, giving his duet a last glance for the night, before setting aside his quill.

America watched him with furrowed brow. “You aren’t mad?”

“Why I would be mad?” Russia asked, standing as he shed his frockcoat and waistcoat. He blew out two of the three candles on the desk. “Time for bed.”

America eyed him for a few more seconds before he set aside his book and started to change. Russia turned away and stood before the icons, crossing himself and bowing before he clasped his hands at his waist, murmuring the standard, rhythmic prayers to himself. The flickering candlelight gave Theotokos and St Nikolai a depth they lacked in plain daylight, rendered them more solidly present and less like painted wood. He prayed for Elizaveta, for the tsarevich and the grand duchess, for his people; he prayed for France and Canada and himself. And he prayed for America.

He prayed that America adjusted. That he would learn French and Russian. That his grief would heal. That they would become friends. That… that he might have with America a relationship like France had with Canada. He wondered briefly if he should space out his prayers instead of ask for everything at once, and shook off the thought as the confused concerns of a younger time. God heard all prayers, even those unspoken.

When he turned back to the room, America was staring. The colony didn’t say anything, but slid off the chest to kneel at the side, hands clasped before his face as he said his own prayers. Russia finished changing and hesitated when America climbed into his hammock. No, far too soon.

He blew out the remaining candles and the room plunged into darkness. He heard America shift, sheets rustling.

“ _Bonne nuit_ , America. _Spokoinoi nochi_ , good night,” Russia said.

There was a long pause, and Russia heard a quiet, “Good night.”

America couldn’t see the relieved smile that slipped quickly across Russia’s face as he climbed into his own hammock, for which he was grateful. He suspected it would only embarrass the child. Saying good night shouldn’t give him such a sense of progress, but…

It was a start.

—

The ship lurched this way and that in the storm, buffeted by the winds that yanked at the sails, trying to tear them asunder and strand the ship in the middle of the unrelenting ocean. America thought that the Devil must heartily disapprove of their passage to whip up such a storm; he said so to Mrs. Allerton yesterday, when all who were able stood on the deck and watched the pastor and some of the crew tip William Butten into the waves. He in his shroud of white had plunged beneath the choppy waters without so much as a hesitation, eager to arrive in Paradise. He probably got there—he had been a kind, God-fearing young man, William Fuller’s servant, and the poor were supposed to inherent the Kingdom of Heaven, so he’d be alright. America told Mrs. Allerton that too; she hushed him and instructed him to listen to the pastor.

That’s what he was doing now, huddle on a bench with his cloak winched around him, dull eyes fixed on the floor as Reverend William read from the Bible. They were doing penance, on account of the storm, praying that the Lord in His all-mighty power would see fit to spare them. The lantern that hung above Reverend William swayed with the ship, casting fantastic shadows over the floor and walls of the cramped galley. America figured it was probably a good thing they were fasting, because the flickering light didn’t help the plunge and shudder of the ship any, and the dank hold already sank of bile and filth and too many bodies pressed together for too long. His stomach was twisted into knots now too; he shivered, stifling a cough that crawled up from deep in his chest, and bundled his cloak tighter.

There was some black on the floor by Reverend William’s feet. He thought it was a shadow at first, rocking with the ship, but then the ship rocked one way and the shadow didn’t. Instead it slowly expanded, puddling around the pastor’s feet, seeping up through the floorboards. America glanced around the assembled congregation; no one seemed to mind it. He muffled another cough and looked back.

The black was bigger now, and when the ship plunged towards portside, the black raced like a rivulet of water down the incline, blooming along the cracks in the floorboards. America stared, wide-eyed, as black pooled around buckled shoes and the hems of skirts. And then the black began to creep up those skirts, tarnish the shoe buckles as it crawled up stockinged legs; America wrenched his feet onto the bench and earned himself a disapproving stare, but the adult looked away before America could point out the black.

His gaze snapped back to a young girl across the circle from him; it was hard to how much of her black dress had been covered, but once it reach the white of her collar it was obvious, crawling up her neck, on to her bonnet and down over her eyes—and then it plunged into her nose and mouth and she collapsed onto the floor.

“Oi!” America scrambled to his feet on the bench, coughing into his sleeve with the force of the exertion. Mrs. Allerton tried to tug him back down, hushing his frantic whispers; he saw black spreading down her sleeves and wrenched his arm free. There was a heavy thump as another child collapsed, and another—Mrs. Allerton’s boy Bartholomew crumpled at her feet.

“What’s happening!” he shouted, terrified voice cutting through the sermon. The dark looks redoubled, even as the black slipped down throats and sent people to the floor. The bench beneath him slowly darkened, and he threw himself into a still clear patch of floor, ducking the dark hands that shot out for him. Father John barred his path; he stumbled to a halt, wheezing air into his lungs.

“Where are you going? Return to your seat,” Reverend William commanded. America could see black slip up past the pastor’s collar.

“But the darkness—!”

“You cannot run from the darkness of sin and corruption,” the pastor intoned. America stared in horror as black crawled into the man’s nose and mouth. “You were born in sin; it will forever exist within you-” He pointed to America’s chest; America looked.

Black blossomed out from his heart.

America screamed, trying to wipe it off— it smeared down his chest like tar, his hands came away sticky and black. It spread as he stumbled backwards, he felt it slide hot and viscous across his skin. His stomach heaved; black splattered onto the floor.

“Someone help me,” he sobbed- he knew without looking that his tears were black. He saw the black from his chest join the black seeping up from his hands, black soaking up from the floor joined at his waist. “Please, someone help me-”

“No one can help you,” came Reverend William’s voice from the melting pillar of tar that stood in his place. America felt the black ooze over his scalp. “You are as damned as the rest of us.”

Black sludge surged towards him; he opened his mouth to scream and choked as black poured in. The indistinguishable mass of the congregation swept him up, pulled him under, curled around his limbs as he thrashed and choked and tried to scream, a tall shadow resolved itself out of the torrent, reaching—

“Get away!” he shouted, flinging his arms up to shield himself.

“Shhh, America; you are okay,” Russia’s low voice sounded from the shadow. America stared, and felt himself uncurl the tiniest bit as Russia stood by the hammock, moonlight from the porthole illuminating half his gentle expression, face pale and almost unearthly.

“You had, _koshmar_?” he asked softly.

America stared, trembling, at his hands, pale and clean. He found his voice. “A what?”

“ _Koshmar_ ,” Russia repeated. “Is like, very bad dream.”

“A nightmare,” America whispered, inching the blankets tighter around him.

Russia nodded. “You want, to tell me about, night-mare?”

America thought of the cloying, choking black. He shuddered, but shook his head. It was mortifying, the fact he had managed to cry out loud enough in his sleep to wake Russia from his.

“You want to sleep again?” Russia asked, in that same whisper-quiet voice that wasn’t a whisper.

He wasn’t a child; he could handle nightmares by himself. “Yes.”

“Can you sleep?”

America opened his mouth, heard the ship groan as if the belly of a great beast, and hesitated.

Russia stood. “I know cure, for _koshmary_ , for nightmares,” he said, then moved towards the door. “I will return.”

The door creaked open and closed, and America was alone.

He squirmed down deeper under the sheets, pulling them around him like a cocoon. He knew he was safe; bad dreams couldn’t follow him into the real world. The black sludge didn’t exist. But the room was shrouded in darkness, save the swath across the bed carved out by moonlight, and it reminded him of Salem, of jolting awake in the dark certain there were familiars and demons clinging to the rafters…

He jumped when the door opened again. Russia whispered an apology as he came over, something small obscured in his hand as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Ready?”

America paused. “I know you can’t cure nightmares,” he said apologetically. “It’s not like getting sick.”

Russia shook his head. “It is exactly like getting sick. They get inside; we get them out.” He tapped the bed. “Lay down.”

America thought of England’s unruffled insistence in the existence of fairies, and decided not to argue. He shifted down on the bed—

“ _Nyet_.” Russia stopped him. “On…” He rubbed his stomach with his empty hand.

America hesitated, then did so, lying on his stomach with his arms tucked up by his face. He turned his head to watch Russia, and saw the nation rolling an egg between his palms. His brow knitted. “What is that for?”

Russia hushed him, then leaned over—America felt him place the egg on his back, between his shoulder blades. Russia rolled the egg down his spine and back up, down his right arm and then the left. America tried not to squirm when the egg rolled over his buttocks and down his right leg, resting briefly in the arch of his foot, then back up and down his left leg, again held against the instep. The egg paused on its return, nestled in the small of his back, before rolling up and coming to rest above his heart. America was abruptly very aware of his heartbeat, pulsing just a few inches beneath the smooth touch of the egg.

“ _Chur, nashe mesto svyatoe_ ,” Russia murmured. America shivered as the egg was removed.

America pushed himself up. He felt, calmer, certainly, but possibly also lighter? “What did you do?” he asked slowly.

Russia held up the egg. America blinked—the shell looked almost black now.

“Nightmares are in egg now,” Russia explained. He was smiling slightly, as if he was very pleased with himself. “Egg pulled them out of your heart.”

Goosebumps erupted across America’s skin. Russia’s smile widened a tiny fraction; he moved into the shadows again as he went to the porthole and opened it, pitching the egg away into the night. “Now sea can take them,” he concluded before returning. The moonlight suffused his skin and hair with the same unearthly glow, caught white and glistening at his throat in sweeping arcs—

“What’re the marks on your neck?” he asked.

Russia cringed as if struck, shoulders hunching as his head dropped to his chest. “ _Nichevo_ — nothing,” he answered. A beat, and then he stepped back, form once more cloaked in concealing night. “You can sleep now?”

America knew he had made a mistake. He dropped his gaze to his own hands, knotted loosely together on the sheets. “Yes.” And then, because it seemed appropriate, he added, “Thank you.”

He thought Russia nodded, before he moved away towards his hammock. “Good night, America. _Bonne nuit_.”

“Good night,” he replied softly, laying down. He listened to Russia shift in the hammock, stilling as he settled. The nightmare felt far and away now, hardly a thing to trouble him. The egg though… He stared up at the ceiling, invisible in the darkness, recalling its path along his skin, wondering how Russia turned it black without America noticing. Maybe it was a just trick of the light. And the words he said at the end—what did they mean? He shifted, rolling onto his side as his brain finally dared to ask the important question:

Was it witchcraft?

—

The next morning America put the memory of the egg out of his mind. He had been tired, and worked up from the nightmare. The room had been dark—it made sense that he might mistake the egg for being the wrong colour. It hadn’t actually turned black; that wasn’t possible. Things like that didn’t happen.

Breakfast remained a trial. They all said their prayers staggered—Catholics first, then Anglican, then Orthodox. The good food rapidly gave way to standard ship’s fare, though their thick porridge was still better than the crew’s. The slices of hard cheese weren’t bad either, though stronger than what America was used to. He noticed the quality of food more than he did back home—he reckoned this was because at home, he didn’t spend the whole meal staring at his bowl and praying no one talked to him.

After breakfast, his options were be in the room with Russia, or be elsewhere. So he went on deck and trailed after Martin, the sailor who taught him how to play the dice game Crapaud. He learned the ins and outs of the ship, the names of the decks and all the masts and sails, even the names of the rigging rope, though Martin refused to let him climb up. The sailors of the _Diamond_ were impressed by America’s knowledge of knots, and he quickly added a dozen more to his repertoire. To his annoyance, he was deemed too small to haul the lines, so he stood by the first mate who called the orders and sung along with the shanties. Or at least, he mimicked the sounds since he didn’t properly understand the words; no one seemed to mind.

Some mornings Russia appeared on deck. America thought the nation would tell him off, chide him for distracting and bothering the sailors, and tell him to go read a book or something. But Russia never did. He’d glance over the deck, note where America was, then settle down on a crate a good distance away with a book or a chunk of driftwood and a knife. If his goal was to keep an eye on America, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

After lunch, Canada was released from lessons—unless he hadn’t yet finished a task from that morning—and joined America. The business of having a- a _peer_ to play with rewrote America’s whole day. Gone was the ever-present need to find something to do—together they had two sources of ideas. They played toy soldiers, or cards, or acted out Shakespeare. They came up with their own plays, about knights and princes and soldiers. They explored gloomy caves filled with dragons and treasure (in reality this was the hold, wherein ship rats made for fantastically quick-moving dragons).

So long as Russia or France weren’t in earshot, America tested out his clunky French, cobbled together from interacting with the sailors. Canada gently corrected him here and there, sometimes gasping when America repeated something particularly foul-mouth that hadn’t seemed foul-mouthed until Canada told him, haltingly, ears red, what it meant. Sometimes that was enough to turn America scarlet too, but he brushed it off like he meant to say that all along. Canada smothered his blush with an admiring look, and America flashed him a cocky grin. In return he prodded Canada’s English into better shape, and taught him a few of the phrases he’d picked up from England’s less sober moments.

He made Canada promise not to tell France or Russia that he was starting to speak French. Canada promised.

Two weeks into the voyage during their first rain storm at sea, America noticed a necklace dangling off Russia’s cross that hadn’t been there before. Glancing at the door as if to confirm that the man wasn’t on his way back, America slipped off the bed and went over, peering at the pendant. The wooden carving resembled a wheel, with little tails off the end of each spoke all pointing the same clock-wise direction around the wheel. He frowned—who hangs things off a cross?

The next day, another pendant appeared—this time of a downward-facing crescent. Russia had been on deck that morning before the rain, tucked up on a crate against the railing, fiddling with drift wood. He must been carving them.

The cross gained a pendant each day that week—a comb, a complicated symbol of interlocking equal-armed crosses, a horse, a stylized flower, an ax head . Their simple cords looped over the arms of the cross, allowing the pendants to sway slightly with the rock of the ship.

On Sunday morning, the Catholics held Mass on deck—America tried to hide in his room but Russia also spent the morning praying, standing before his cross. America took his own Bible and hid in the hold; it was too dark to read, but he couldn’t bring himself to pray. His mind replayed what little he saw of Russia’s service—praying, constantly crossing himself and bowing. With all the wooden symbols dangling off the cross…

Once the Catholics finished their Mass, America went to France.

America heard France speaking as he reached the captain’s door, caught something possibly about Spain. He knocked, interrupting the lecture, and a few moments later the door opened.

France blinked at him. “ _Oui,_ Amérique?”

“I need to talk to you for a moment.” America could Canada farther back in the room, peering around his father.

France told Canada to write… something, and stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him. “This is unusual,” he noted.

America jammed his hands into the pockets of his frockcoat. He figured he ought to wear it if he was going to see France, to look all put together and grown-up. “I noticed a funny thing, in the room with Russia…” he started. “See, he’s got his cross up on the wall, and these tablet picture, things…”

“Icons, I believe he calls them,” France said. “Yes, because he’s Orthodox. You’re really going to have to learn not to call the religions of others ‘funny’—”

“No, I’m not!” America corrected quickly. “That’s not the funny bit. I mean, it _is_ , but that’s not what I’m talking about. He’s gone and hung all these necklaces off the cross—”

France blinked. “ _Quoi_.”

“Yeah! And each one’s got a different little pendant—one’s a wheel, another’s a horse, an ax—”

“Oh, not this again,” France sighed, brushing passed America.

America pivoted in place, blurting, “Where are you going?”

But he could see France already coming to a stop outside Russia’s door. America ran over, just as France knocked and walked in without waiting for a response. America entered too, stopping just by the door as France went straight to the cross, ignoring how Russia quickly scrambled up from his seat at the desk.

“What—”

“Russie,” France half turned to face the arctic nation, a bemused grin tilting his lips. “We’ve talked about this.”

Russia’s gaze darted to America for an instant before refocusing on France. America wondered if France was continuing to speak in English for his benefit.

“Talked, about what?” Russia asked slowly.

France’s grin gained an almost sympathetic veneer. “The charms,” he said, gesturing towards the cross.

Russia stiffened.

“I thought you had moved passed such… _primitive_ superstitions,” France continued, turning to face the cross, his back to Russia. He hooked his fingers behind one of the charms—the horse, America thought—and inspected it. “You must realize that such trinkets don’t actually sway the Lord one way or another for a safe voyage or calm seas or anything like that.”

Russia’s ears had gone pink. America wondered how much of the English the man understood—clearly enough.

When France started pulling the charms free from the cross, Russia took a step forward. “ _Que faites-vous—?_ ”

“You’ve got to stop with these peasant ways sooner or later,” France said firmly, striding back towards Russia with a handful of pendants. Just as he drew level, he glanced aside—

—Russia’s eyes widened, “ _Nyet_ —”

And threw the pendants out the open porthole.

America stared, mouth open. Russia remained frozen, eyes fixed on the porthole. France waited.

Russia dropped his head slightly and mumbled something too low for America to catch.

France rolled his eyes. “Yes, if we go down at sea I will take full responsibility for an act of God.” He let out a breath. “I know it’s difficult for you, but it’s for the best.” He snagged Russia’s hand and drew the back of it to his lips; Russia didn’t resist, but when France let go and turned away, he clenched his fist tight against his diaphragm.

France paused on his way out the door, resting a hand on America’s shoulder. “You did well,” he assured with a smile.

America abruptly wished he could drop through the floor. He didn’t know what he expected to come of telling France, but it wasn’t… this. France gave his shoulder a soft squeeze and left, frockcoat whisking triumphantly around the corner.

America hesitated, and looked back to Russia. He remained where France left him, head bowed slightly, now with both fists knotted at his sides. He lifted his chin as if steeling himself, cheeks also stained pink, and glanced at the door. Their eyes met.

America bit his lip, taking a step back. Then he turned and left, climbing the stairs to the deck. He sat by himself until lunchtime, tying and untying his practice rope as if this would loosen the knots in his stomach.

—

Lunch was a quiet affair. Canada curled in on himself as if to appear as small as possible, which worked until France chided him for his poor posture. He sat, back straight, head bowed, for the rest of the meal. Russia didn’t speak unless spoken to, and carefully avoided eye contact with everyone. America inhaled his food over the protests of his stomach and asked to be excused; France refused, and America glared at his bowl for the remainder of the meal.

The afternoon went better. He and Canada found an old length of rope just long enough to make a perfect skip rope, and passed the hours trying to break each other’s records for most skips in a row. Canada won at 356, but only because America almost sprained his formerly broken ankle trying a fancy double skip. He learned how to count to 340 in French though, so that was something. French had the _stupidest_ counting system ever.

Russia remained below deck.

Dinner was not quite as uncomfortable as lunch, but only just. If America paid attention, he could catch some of the words France said—recounting scenes from a book he was reading, so it sounded. He understood Canada better, probably because Canada spoke slower and didn’t mind repeating himself. France’s words blurred together, a stream of sloshing vowels punctuated by consonants, almost impossible to sort into words. When Russia joined the conversation a bit, America noticed that his French was low and settled, not as animate as France’s. Russia must have an accent in French just as he did in English, but America couldn’t hear it.

At the end of dinner, France informed them that he and Canada were going to sing gospel songs, if either wanted to join them. Russia declined, and America wasn’t about to sing Catholic gospels, so America ended up following him back to their quarters. Russia settled at his desk, back to the room, and America stood by the door for a few moments, glancing at the cross now devoid of charms. Maybe he should go on deck until it was time for bed? But the night wind would be cold… He opted for retrieving the commonplace book from his trunk and curling up on the corner of a trunk. He thumbed through the pages, mostly staring at the sketches, and wondered what England was doing now.

The scenario was almost familiar: America trying to keep himself entertained, while the grown-up nation did grown-up work, not to be bothered. That happened when England visited—he couldn’t spend all his time shirking responsibilities to play toy soldiers. No reason to think Russia would be any different…

“I am not angry.”

America jumped. Russia had stopped writing, though he hadn’t looked up from the page.

“I beg your pardon?” America tried.

“I am not angry,” Russia repeated. He looked at America. “Not at you.”

America got the impression that something was off, but didn’t know what. “That’s, good then…”

Russia nodded, returning to his work. The urge to apologize hit America like a brick, and he bit his lip. Apologize for what? France throwing the charms out the porthole? That wasn’t America’s fault—he didn’t ask France to do that. Besides, Russia shouldn’t be hanging weird little charms off the cross anyways. It wasn’t normal, and France’s reaction confirmed that.

“What were they for?” he asked into the silence.

The quill stilled. “What?”

“What were they for? The charms…” America watched Russia’s expression carefully, saw his brow furrow as he fished for the words.

“To be safe. Good trip. Vel- wealth. To be protecting.”

“Protected,” America corrected, immediately wincing.

“Protected,” Russia conceded. “No storms…”

“Were they magic?”

Russia’s gaze shifted to him, searching for something. America shifted, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. He repeated, “Were they magic?”

Russia looked away, staring at the porthole. “No, I don’t think so.”

America remembered France’s words—primitive superstitions—and decided that was probably true.

Russia blew out all but one candle on the desk. “Time to sleep.”

They changed and prayed separately as before. America buried himself under the blankets as Russia blew out the remaining candle, watching Russia’s silhouette climb into the hammock—he almost didn’t fit.

“ _Bonne nuit_ , America, _spokoinoi nochi_. Good night.”

“Good night…”

—

A watch whistle wormed its way into his sleep. America groaned, rolled over, and realized he had to piss. Maybe he could ignore it until morning?

Then he froze, a strange, low sound reaching his ears. He eased his eyes open, trying to peer through the darkness covering the room like a cloak. He could see the desk, illuminated from a patch of light through the porthole, and the second hammock. He could just barely make out Russia’s silhouette curled up in the middle, and realized that the low murmur was coming from him.

Why was Russia up in the dead of night, mumbling? Did all of his people do this? Was he praying? America sat up slowly, movements steady-

The beams creaked; America didn’t breath. Russia continued to mumble.

There was no way he could get to the easement unnoticed. He sighed, then kicked the blankets off and climbed out of his hammock.

The murmuring stopped. America shoved down the burning sensation that he had just done something embarrassing and hurried to the door.

A single lantern hung down the hall shed a glow of light into the narrow corridor and America followed it to the stairs, eyeing the dark shadows clinging to crates and corners. When he reached the top deck, he stopped, exhaling softly.

Moonlight bathed the world in a ghostly blue-white, the swelling orb bright enough to obliterate half the stars in the sky. The rest of the fleet was arranged like chess pieces behind the ship, each in their own place. Far off the horizon distinguished itself only by the faintest difference in shade between darkest blues, and it struck him how easy it would be to believe sailing off the edge of the earth was possible. It seemed possible, even when he knew the earth was round.

A sailor on night watch yawned, drawing him out of his contemplation enough to notice the chill of the wind. He hurried to the beakhead, tried not to imagine a- a giant kraken or something lurching up out of the black sea beneath him to drag him under, and quickly stole back below deck once he was done.

He stopped just inside the room and waited for his eyes to adjust. The mumbling hadn’t returned, and as shapes emerged from the darkness he saw that Russia had laid down again. What a strange man. Normally when people woke for night prayers they lit a candle at least. Though this was presuming Russia had been praying and not doing something else. An image of the charms came to mind, and America shook it off.

Back under the covers, he thought of the moon and stars, the deep pitch of the night ocean. He wanted to tell England about it, he wanted to tell England about all of it—learning all the names of the masts and rigging; learning new knots; playing with Canada and how nice it was to not have to pretend he was a normal kid; how annoying France was, and how incomprehensible Russia seemed…

He sniffed, rolling over and bundling up the loose blankets to his chest. The bunch was too soft and small to remind him of anyone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chur, nashe mesto svyatoe: Chur, our space is holy. Chur is a 'magic word' in Russian folk belief, like "abracadabra" in English, used to cause an effect to happen.


	8. Cards, Witches, and Drunks

They awoke the next day to find themselves becalmed. Russia didn’t say anything.

The crew of the Diamond seemed as deflated as the ship, the sails slack for lack of wind as the vessel drifted aimlessly, with no way to guide it. One day’s travel lost to lack of winds was hardly troubling, especially when they weren’t hoping to make a specific rendezvous, but on the third day France called First Mate Laurent and the navigator to the quarterdeck in the morning. They consulted maps, previous log books, and the celestial calculations, trying to determine if they were just having a run of poor luck or had accidentally strayed too far south.

“This is ridiculous,” France muttered, comparing their calculated latitude to a map depicting the winds. “We should be at least ten degrees too far north to run afoul of the Calms of Cancer.”

Russia tried to dredge up the memory of the term. This was only his second time attempting to cross the Atlantic, and France’s explanation of wind terms during their initial crossing was some three years prior. “That is, the horse latitudes, yes?”

France grunted, double-checking the calculations with an abacus. He sighed, passing the device back to the navigator in defeat. “Nothing’s amiss.”

“What happens if we are in the horse latitudes?” Russia asked.

“We hope to God to get enough light wind to sail north into the North Atlantic current,” France replied, arms crossed. Russia remembered those as the westerlies, the winds blowing from west to east, towards Europe, in contrast to the trade winds, which blew east to west, towards America.

“If we don’t?”

France stared at him for a moment, then stated, “Then we drift off-course, hopefully towards land, and pray we don’t start running out of water. And if we do, we pitch horses overboard.”

The name of the wind range—or lack thereof—became abruptly clear. “Might as well eat them, if they’re going to die anyways,” Russia mumbled. Eating them seemed a kinder choice that letting them drown.

France hummed. “Well! With any luck, this is simply a patch of bad luck.” He dismissed the first mate and navigator before turning towards the starboard gangway.

“Have you ever hit the horse latitudes?” Russia called after.

France stopped, turning back. “Not personally, no. When I go to the Caribbean, I take the Canary Current past Portugal and Morocco before the North Equatorial Current takes me west. Near the islands, if one strayed too far back out to sea there was the risk of it, but… I’ve heard the reports of finding ghost ships, drifting without purpose. The men who board them found a handful of sailors out of their minds with hunger and thirst, the bones of their shipmates scattered across the deck…” He shook his head, again murmuring, “It shouldn’t be a problem at this latitude. I don’t understand why we’re becalmed…”

Russia shifted his weight, and knew he shouldn’t say anything. “The winds stopped the day after you threw the horse carving out the porthole.” The one for prosperity and swift voyages.

“Don’t even start, Russie,” France warned, wagging a finger at him. He began to descend the stairs, donning his hat as he called over his shoulder, “I’ll be in my quarters.”

France’s complete lack of belief did not transfer to his men. When they were still becalmed the next day, the off-watch sailors crafted a straw horse effigy using loose packing hay and paraded the horse through the whole ship, all the decks, up and down the rigging. They toasted the horse and each other, while France looked on from the quarterdeck. Russia was tempted to join them, even though he didn’t know the tradition. All he knew was that the men thought it would kick up the winds again. He saw America and Canada watching the scene with wide eyes, and stayed next to France on the quarterdeck to set a good example.

Then a small contingent of the men, led by First Mate Laurent, broke off from the crowd and came up the port gangway to the quarterdeck, bringing the horse with them. France blinked, straightening, and went to meet them. Russia trailed behind him.

“What is this?” he asked, tone decidedly neutral as the men doffed their caps respectively upon reaching the quarterdeck.

“We’re hoping for your blessing, Captain,” Laurent said, not quite looking France in the eye. Russia wondered if they had had a conversation about this before.

France didn’t reply, observing the two sailors carrying the straw horse, before glancing out over the assembled crew below. He sighed and waved Laurent aside, stepping up to the horse.

“Blessings on you, then,” he intoned, making the sign of the cross over it in the fashion of the Latin Pope. “Accept our gift, Posiden, and give us strong winds.”

“Thank you, sir,” Laurent said quietly.

France ignored this. “Off it goes!” he dismissed with a wave.

Laurent and the men return to the crowd amidst cheers, which reach a crescendo as they pitched the horse over the side of the ship. Russia saw it bob in the water for several seconds, before it became too water-logged and sank beneath the surface. They must have stuffed the center with something heavier.

France shook his head as the men returned to their tasks. “This is why we need the Enlightenment,” he commented.

Russia made a noncommittal noise and left the quarterdeck, only to be immediately besieged by America and Canada. He missed a good chunk of America’s rapid English, and Canada’s attempts to translate directly on his heels were drowned out by America; he held up his hands to quiet them.

“Slower, what is it?”

Of course they wanted to know about the horse. Russia explained that it was a sailor’s tradition to bring good sailing winds; when asked if it worked, he hesitated. “I don’t know. Hopefully.” The correct answer, according to France, would undoubtedly be ‘no of course not’.

Two watch whistles later, as the sun began to near his watery bed, there was a rustle. Slowly the crew fell still, then broke out into hoots of triumph as the sails filled with wind and the ship groaned into movement. Russia grinned along with them, watching the colonies race up and down the deck shouting “The winds are back, the winds are back!” in French and English.

France ordered the cook to prepare plum duff, a thick porridge dessert filled with raisins, and Russia did not point out the timing of the wind’s return over dinner that night. The buoyant mood was enough, and France kept their wine glasses full, dropping innuendos over the heads of the children in a way that made Russia’s stomach somersault when their eyes met.

—

After dinner, America and Canada were deposited in the small sitting room in captain’s quarters and told to remain there while France and Russia attended other matters. America imaged them writing out trade agreements in Russia’s room and decided he was much happier playing with Canada.

“I’m glad the wind’s back,” he announced.

“ _Oueh_ , me too,” Canada agreed, crouching by the table with a hunk of fish in hand. “Papa said getting stuck in _les Calme de Cancer_ is dangerous.”

America had no idea what that meant; he’d asked Martin tomorrow. “D’you have any cards?” he asked, glancing around the room.

Canada continued to lure his bear out from under the table. “ _Oueh_ , I have cards.”

Once the bear was settled by them on the carpet, America dealt them a hand each and failed to explain what game they were playing. After the sixth “I’m sorry” from Canada, he sighed. “You should learn English.”

Canada bit his lip, replying in French, “I think Papa wants you to learn French.”

“I don’t give a toss what France wants,” America answered in English. He rearranged his cards from high to low and tried to ignore how little he had to think about what Canada said in order to understand. Hanging around listening to the crew and trying to talk with them meant that the language was seeping into him like a mold. But so long as he didn’t stop speaking English completely it would be okay. “Let’s play Hearts.”

They went back and forth, the game hampered slightly by the lack of players. America broke the silence to ask, “What’s France like, anyways? As your dad, I mean…”

Canada smiled; America wasn’t sure he noticed. “Oh Papa is wonderful. He is very kind, and very clever. He loves me very much.”

“How do you know?” America hid a triumphant smile as he forced Canada to take the queen of spades.

“Because he told me so.”

America snorted. “That’s a stupid reason.”

“No it is not…” Canada frowned. He laid down the two of hearts, opening the suit. “He tells me he loves me, every night before I sleep. We pray together, then he sings a song to me, or tells a story.” More hearts were played; America suffered another few points. Canada continued, “He tells me, ‘good night, Canada. Sleep well, and sweet dreams. I love you, and I will see you in the morning,’ and kisses my hair.”

Another round, and America focused on the quiet shup of cards played as he gained more points. He heard himself ask, “Does he visit you often?”

“As much as he can. He sails with the merchant ships, from Quebec to Brittany and back.”

“To Brittany?”

“ _Oui_. It is a northern coastline in France.”

“Oh.” America ran the edge of a heart card under his thumbnail. “So, he visits you every year.”

“ _Oueh_ , every year. Not in winter; Papa says it is too cold. But that is why I have Objiwe!” Canada snuggled back against the white bear, who huffed out a breath and didn’t stir from sleep.

America considered the cards between them. He needed to stop gaining points, but most of his low cards were gone. “So you’re alone in the winter too then.”

“Oh no, in winter I live with the Governor. We have a wonderful Christmas—he treats me like his own child.” Canada doled out more hearts.

“Did you get the whole stupid suit?” America grumbled, taking more of the damning points. He was losing now; he hoped that was the only reason for the way his stomach rolled.

Canada shrugged, shuffling the cards left in his hand. He sat up. “What about you? Are you happy that Russie will be your papa?”

“No,” America snapped. “What a stupid question. Of course I’m not happy. And he’s not my father, England is my father. Russia’s a— a kidnapper, is what he is.” He hunched over his cards, trying to find a way to salvage his score.

Canada fidgeted with his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” America retorted, missing Canada’s flinch. “Why would you think I’d be happy to live with Russia? What do you think of him?”

“Um, I- do not know. He seems, a little frightening,” Canada mumbled, staring at the floor.

“Exactly. I’m not scared of him though,” he added quickly. “But he’s strange and huge and doesn’t like me. And I think he might be a witch.”

Canada’s eyes widened. “A witch?”

America told him about the egg, and the charms Russia hung from the Cross, and how France threw them out the porthole. Canada’s brows rose to his hairline.

“I did not know about that…”

“Probably France didn’t want the crew to find out he’s hidden a witch on board,” America huffed. The cards lay forgotten between them. “And Russia says his prayers not even in Latin, and crosses himself backwards. Isn’t that the sort of thing witches do? They do everything backwards? And once, I woke up in the middle of the night, but Russia was already awake, sitting up in his hammock muttering to himself.”

Canada shrank back further against Objiwe. “That’s scary…”

“Isn’t it? I’m telling you, I think he’s a witch.” America scooped up the cards and reshuffled them. “What’s scary is that we’re all stuck on this little ship together—”

“Stop it; you are scaring me,” Canada pleaded.

“You should be scared if there’s a witch on board. I can’t believe France is friends with him—”

“Papa does not know,” Canada said defensively.

America gave him a look. “How do you know?”

“Papa is a good Christian; he would not be friends with a witch,” Canada answered, certain. “He thinks that Russie has funny peasant habits—”

“Maybe those peasant habits are actually witchcraft, only France can’t tell because he’s never seen a Russian witch,” America offered. “Lord, how many people do you think he’s fooled?”

“I do not know. I do not want to talk about this; it is scary,” Canada repeated.

“But—”

“Please, America?”

He scowled, dealing out another round. “Fine…”

America didn’t do any better on the second round, though started to recover for the third and fourth. America told himself that this was because he quoted Shakespeare and Canada didn’t know what he was talking about and that would just not do, so he was very distracted trying to play and explaining the plot of a Midsummer’s Night Dream at the same time. Canada kept confusing the names. By the fifth round, they gave up playing, America scooting around to Canada’s side to also lean against Objiwe , gesturing broadly as he tried to explain Hamlet.

“—but it was actually Polonius behind the curtain, so Hamlet kills him. He doesn’t feel bad about it though, because Polonius was a bad guy loyal to Hamlet’s uncle. And then—”

“Why do you do that?” Canada asked.

America stopped. “Do what?”

Canada fluttered his hands like an abstract bird in flight. “You move your hands when you talk.” He was sunk so low against Objiwe that he was nearly lying on the floor.

The tips of America’s ears went pink. “I don’t know. I’ve always done that.” England had told him on more than one occasion to sit on his hands while he spoke, that they couldn’t have him ‘flailing about like some drunkard’, especially if England was ever to take America to court. But he supposed that didn’t matter now.

Canada hummed, eyes shut. He stifled a yawn—America yawned in response—and mumbled something.

“What was that?”

Canada shook his head. “I only wonder where they are…”

“Probably doing boring adult things.” America settled down next to him. “You can sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

The other colony nodded faintly, curling up on his side. America looked at him for a moment, at the curl that looped over his face, and wondered what it would be like to have a brother. They could catch frogs in the creek together, or perform plays, or go on adventures in the woods, or actually have opposing forces with the toy soldiers, instead of pretending to be both sides and never getting any surprises that way. And if Da stayed away late because of business, or didn’t visit for three years because he had to attend the Queen, there would be someone else to sleep beside on the really dark nights…

—

Russia kept one arm firmly looped around France’s waist, and used the other to hold France’s arm over his own shoulders. France didn’t currently care enough to pretend he could walk on his own, given the short distance between Russia’s room and France’s quarters, and Russia barely felt France’s weight. Like a waif, he could be.

He swung them to a stop. “Get the door.”

France giggled. “ _Oueh_ —your accent’s showing, Russie.”

Russia frowned as the door swung open and he stepped them inside. France cooed, ignoring Russia’s attempt to hush him.

“Oh look at them—curled up asleep like a pair of kittens…” He tried to straighten, and nuzzled the side of Russia’s face. “I want to snuggle.”

“No,” Russia said, carefully walking France around the sleeping pair. Objiwe watched their lop-sided procession in what Russia would swear was amusement. “You are going to bed now.”

France turned to face him, looping his arms around Russia’s neck with more grace that Russia would’ve given him credit for. “You’ll come with me, then?” he purred, their lips almost touching. Russia breathed the taste of wine and lilacs, and felt his fingers curl into the back of France’s frockcoat.

“No,” he answered, glancing back towards the bear. Two tuffs of blond were barely visible over its side. “No, there are children,” he repeated, gently trying to push France backwards.

“They are asleep, and I know how quiet you can be,” France murmured, warm breath ghosting over Russia’s ear. The arctic nation opened his mouth to protest, and France continued, “Come to bed with me.”

Russia felt France press himself flush against him and, subtly was not France’s strong suit sometimes, not while drunk. “No, France; you are going to bed, and the only person joining you in bed is Canada.”

France gave an undignified snort, burying his face in Russia’s broad shoulder. Russia winced, backtracking hastily, “No, I meant- you know what I meant— wait, is this a good idea? Fuck—” He was thinking out loud, he must be at the border of tipsy and drunk, farther than he thought. Because the food wasn’t enough, he supposed; drinking while hungry was not actually the best choice.

“You know I’d never touch him, and I will bite you if you think otherwise,” France nosed him, only half joking. His lips twisted into a grin. “Besides, why on earth would I want a child when I could have you pinning me to the bed with your strong hands, holding me down while you fuck me stupid—”

Russia felt France’s nails dig into his back through three layers of clothing and he needed to disentangle himself, now, or they were going to end up compromised in a room with small children and while Russia could manage quiet, France usually did not— “France, let go—” he carefully pried France’s hands away, forcing him back a step.

“Russie—”

“Hush.” Russia pressed a finger to France’s lips to silence the whine, and France took the digit in his mouth. Russia’s mouth went abruptly dry and the thoughts that had lined up behind his lips vanished like sugar in hot tea.

A soft sound from behind them; Russia jumped, jerking his finger free, France’s teeth scraping over his knuckle in the process. His mind latched onto the pain, focusing, as France muffled a disheartened groan into the colder nation’s chest.

Canada stirred, slumped over Objiwe’s back, blinking at them with sleep-filled eyes. “Papa?”

Russia hadn’t seen France look so disgruntled since he was told on campaign that they had run out of spices to season the meat. He gave the Frenchman a meaningful, you see? look.

France rolled his eyes heavenward before pulling himself together, leaning against Russia for support. “ _Oui, mon petit_?”

“I’m tired. Can we sleep?”

“Of course, _cher_ ,” France answered in a sigh, taking a wobbling seat on the bed before mouthing to Russia, can you carry him here?

Russia took his turn to roll his eyes before obliging. Canada stretched up his arms as Russia approached, and he was struck by how light the child was. Could he be that much smaller than America? Russia set Canada down beside France, who reached out and stroked his hair as the boy curled up again.

“Would you help us get these waistcoats off?” France asked, glancing at Russia.

He opened his mouth, paused, then shut it. “That was a very clever trap. I almost took it.”

“You’re so mean sometimes, Russie,” France pouted, fumbling open the buttons on Canada’s waistcoat. The child stirred and rolled over. The older nation sighed. “He can sleep in it one night.”

Russia leaned forward and left a quick kiss in France’s hair, pulling back before the other man could catch his wrist. “Sleep,” he insisted, walking over to the scattered card game. Objiwe blinked up at him; Russia crouched and ruffed the bear’s fur, noting that the creature hadn’t moved with America still snuggled into his side.

“ _Ty ochen’ terpelivyi_ ,” Russia informed Objiwe, before carefully picking America up. The colony stirred, bleary eyes opening a fraction and not seeing as he draped over Russia’s shoulder, eyes closed again.

Russia straightened. France looked at them, waistcoat and breeches discarded. “I bet he’d sleep through canon fire,” he observed.

“I pray he never has opportunity to find out,” Russia murmured. He tried not to picture the tiny body riddled with shrapnel, shifting America’s weight a fraction.

France chuckled, shaking his head as if Russia had said something funny. “Good night, Russie. If you change your mind…”

“Good night, France.” He let the other nation see his bemused smile as he left.

Back in his quarters, he laid America out in the hammock and divested him of his shoes, stockings, necktie, waistcoat, and breeches, and daintily unhooked the collar button on the chemise. When he draped the blankets over him, America promptly cocooned himself by rolling over. Russia smiled.

“Good night, America.”

“G’night, England…”

Russia’s gut twisted— he backed away from the bed, biting the inside of his cheek, not hard enough to draw blood, and held it until the initial wave passed. Then he turned away from America, undressed, and climbed into his hammock. His mind wouldn’t settle; he murmured the Jesus prayer to himself, ticking off the count on his fingertips without actually counting, listening to America’s slow and steady breathing.

Eventually, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ty ochen’ terpelivyi- you are very patient.


	9. Arrangements

The fresh winds brought a mild storm with them shortly after. This, Russia supposed, showed the importance of wording: ‘strong winds’ versus ‘good sailing winds’.

The door creaked open; Russia paused in his reading, recognized the heeled click of America’s footsteps, and returned his attention to ‘History of the Relationship Between the Indian Nations and the Colony of Massachusetts’. “It is raining now?”

“Yes,” America sighed. “The bosuns mate ordered me below deck.”

Given the pitch the ship kept dipping into, that was probably for the best. The first watch had seen the approaching clouds during the night, and while it wasn’t a dangerous storm per se, losing his colony because America got swept off the deck by a rough wave would be stupid. He turned a page in his book.

America crossed the room and plunked down onto a trunk, face buried in his hands. Russia glanced at this, and kept reading. By this point he could recognize America’s flare for the dramatic; the child hadn’t yet reached the point of pent-up boredom that demanded attention.

“What are you reading?”

America had turned his face to look at him. “Book about your Indians,” Russia replied.

“My Indians?” America repeated, brow furrowed.

“Yes. Different from Indians, who live in India,” Russia clarified.

“Oh. Well, that doesn’t quite make them ‘mine’.”

Russia nodded, eyes still on his book. “That is very true.” The native peoples living around the borders of the colonies were no more America’s than the Siberian peoples were Russia’s.

Silence, save for the occasion moan of the ship beams as they dipped starboard and back again. America heaved a sigh as he pushed himself up, sitting cross-legged. “Is Canada still at lessons?”

Russia gave up reading and slipped a ribbon between the pages as a bookmark, setting it aside on his desk. “Yes. Probably writing.” He had heard the first strains of violin practice earlier in the morning, which stopped shortly after. France likely confined Canada’s study to silent activities this morning, so the kingdom himself could lie in bed feeling nauseous in peace. Russia’s own violin lay untouched in the corner.

Which reminded him... “You know how in mornings, Canada has lessons, yes?”

“Yes…” America answered, weight shifting back on his hands.

“I do not know, what you know. What England teached—”

“Taught,” America corrected reflexively.

Russia paused, then continued, “What England taught you. I want to write, what he- _taught_ you, so I know which tutors you need.”

America made a face. “I don’t need tutors.”

“Which subjects you studied?” Russia asked, ignoring the comment as he half turned back to the desk, taking up his quill.

“I don’t know,” America grumbled.

Russia glanced back. “You can read, yes?”

“I already told you I can read, don’t you remember?” America crossed his arms.

Ah yes, the bookshop in Boston. He made a note on the parchment. “Which languages you studied?” He would bet money the answer was ‘not French’.

“I practiced my letters sometimes, if that’s what you mean,” America answered, uncrossing his arms as he slid off the trunk, balancing on one foot.

“No, I mean— maybe you studied Latin?”

The ship dipped port side; America wobbled and set his foot down. “Ugh, no. I mean, I tried studying Latin for a bit and it was terrible. Most boring language in the world.”

This too was scratched down. “Any others?”

“No? Latin was really the only one England cared about.”

Russia hummed. Russian, French, and German would be necessary, at the very least, and of course Latin and Greek, if he ever wanted to read anything of importance… “What else? Mathematics?”

“Ma- _thu_ -ma-tics,” America enunciated. “And yes, I know my figures.” At the puzzled expression, he clarified, “I know basic arithmetic.”

So next would be algebra and calculus… America watched his quill jot notes, and declared, “You’re wasting your time, you know.”

“Why is that?” Russia asked, not looking up from the list.

“No tutor will teach me.”

He snorted at the edge of pride in the child’s voice. “Someone teached— _taught_ you.”

“Not really…”

“What you mean, not really? Who was your tutor?”

“I didn’t have tutors.”

Russia’s hands stilled as he looked up, frowning. “You did not have tutors?”

“No tutors,” America repeated, that note of pride returning. He shifted to balance on his other foot. “England tried to get me tutors, but they were all awful and hated me, so I played tricks on them. They never lasted long. One man, when he quit, told England I was stupid and quite incapable of learning. England sort of gave up after that, which suits me just fine. Lessons are boring,” he concluded, wobbling again before returning both feet to the floor.

“That’s ridiculous…” Russia murmured, brows knitted. America was obviously very bright— what idiots did England try to hire? He supposed good tutors were hard to come by in the colonies, but even so… “Well, I will find good tutors for you.”

America groaned. “I don’t want lessons.”

“You need lessons.” Russia picked up the parchment and read, “You will have lessons in algebra, calculus, physica, geometry; history, theory of music, astronomy; Latin, Russian, French, German—”

“I don’t want to learn _French_ ,” America protested. “Or Russian!”

“—horse- horsemanship, fencing, military training, etiquette, dance; religion—”

“ _No_ ,” America cut him off. “I am _not_ , studying your religion.”

Russia sighed. “It is not, eh… to make you my religion—”

“To _convert_ me— is that the word you’re looking for? While you’re making a list of how to torment me, you might want find a tutor for yourself—your English is terrible,” America sneered.

Russia put the list down, and rested a hand atop it. “These subjects will help you… be part of court,” he said slowly.

“I don’t _want_ to be a part of your court! I don’t want any of it— I want to go home!” America crossed his arms tightly over his chest as he turned away. “I don’t want to speak French; I don’t want to speak Russian, or German, or anything— and I definitely _do not_ want to study your heretical religion! I won’t do it.”

Russia sighed. Pure stubbornness. He had heard America speaking French with Canada, with the crew, but the minute he realized Russia was nearby, America switched to English and acted like he didn’t have the faintest clue how to speak French. He wished America spoke French better, then perhaps Russia could actually explain what he meant. America didn’t understand how necessary it would be for him to adapt, what the consequences could be if he didn’t. By virtue of his own position, Russia should be able to shield America from the worst of it, but… He was right not to try starting lessons while still on the ship. “Thank you for telling me which subjects you know.”

America stared, chewing his lip. “You’re really strange,” he said abruptly. “You’re nothing like England. You’re not even really like France. Are you certain you’re European?”

Russia’s fist clenched. He wanted to tell America that he was European, more European than him even, but a persistent voice in the back of his head wondered if that was true. His nobles looked European; many carried European sentiments, but stray from the higher circles… He recalled Peter the Great standing over his plans for the new capital once the major construction was completed. ‘ _There is always more to be done; remember that._ ’

He was spared the necessity of response by a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” he called.

Canada pushed the door open, hesitating in the doorway as he started to ask, “Papa wondered—”

“Come in,” Russia cut him off, gesturing. “It’s bad luck to talk over a threshold.”

Canada stepped in quickly. “Um, Papa sent me to ask, if I might play with America here?” he asked quietly.

America turned hopeful eyes on him. Well, that neatly destroyed Russia’s plan to get further work done. France must’ve called off the lessons early. “Yes, that is fine,” he nodded.

America brightened, rushing over to Canada as Russia gathered his book and left, shutting the door behind him. He went to France’s quarters—the door to the bed chamber was shut, but that was fine. The huge nation settled into the seat at France’s writing desk, and found he couldn’t focus.

He sank a little lower in his chair, staring at the lace on his cuffs and the swathes of ribbon encircling them, turning his wrists slowly. An small ink blotch stained a smear under his right wrist; France would definitely notice, even if sick. He’d wear a different coat to lunch, then afterward he could remove the lace and treat it with spirits, then tack it back on…

—

Canada took charge of half the men as the opposing French, and their forces clashed outside of Philadelphia, cannons belching smoke across the field as America drummed out troop movement orders. The British lines spread out, taking advantage of a hill to protect a numerically weaker right flank while preventing an encirclement. The French calvary dove forward in a wedge straight into the heart of the British line but were repulsed—

“They weren’t pushed back; the line broke,” Canada frowned as America removed half the attacking calvary to signify the slaughter they suffered.

“No, we set pikes-”

“Red Coats don’t carry pikes—” Canada pointed out, reaching for the horse figures.

America warded off Canada’s hand. “Well _these_ Red Coats do.”

“Fine.” Canada sat back, giving up on retrieving his pieces. “But the Red Coats still can’t hold a line against Russian calvary—”

“It’s not Russian calvary, it’s French calvary-”

“It was a mixed force at Philadelphia; of course it’s Russian calvary—” Canada tried to explain.

America shook his head. “We’re not playing out the _actual_ Battle of Philadelphia-”

“Is that why the Red Coats suddenly have pikes like it’s the Crusades?” Canada asked skeptically.

“Yes, so the line holds and half the French calvary is lost in the charge—”

The scream startled them so badly that they upset half the field, British and French troops alike scattered by the sudden jump. The screaming didn’t stop, any possible words distorted by terror. Canada scrambled to his feet; America clambered up after him, trying to find his tongue as Canada sprinted for the door. “What-”

“It’s Papa!”

They flew down the narrow hall, a lurch of the ship almost throwing America into a sailor on duty. Canada threw open the door to France’s chambers; America crashed into him as he came to a sharp halt just inside the room. “Why—”

Then America saw France kneeling on top of the table in the center of the small drawing room, a nearby chair overturned, shaking hands held up by his face. His shirt was half untucked from his breeches, stockinged feet missing the shoes that were lying in two different locations on the floor. His usual ponytail was half untied, waves of untidy gold failing to hide tear-stained cheeks and wild blue eyes as he fixed his attention on Russia, looming in a corner with his back to the room.

Something small and dark darted past his feet and France let out another shriek, pointing wildly, “It’s there, by the bookshelf!” as a brown rat raced along the edge of the wall, desperately seeking escape. Russia followed, brandishing a rolled up wad of paper presumably lifted off France’s writing desk.

America watched, jaw slack from sheer amazement, as Russia tried to chase the creature to the door and out of France’s chambers. The heavy silver candelabra from the table was half way across the room, scattered like France’s shoes; America realized France must’ve thrown them. Every time the older nation spotted the rat he fell back into furious hysterics, crouched unsteadily atop the table as the ship rocked in the storm.

“There, now it’s there! Don’t let it back into my room, Canada shut the door— _it’s under the chair god Russie kill it_ —”

“I will, you’re okay—”

_“No they jump they fucking jump it’s going to jump on the table!”_

Then the rat tried to scurry past Objiwe, his afternoon sleep disturbed by the cacophony, and he lunged, trapping the rat beneath his huge paws. The frantic squeaking stopped with a single loud crunch.

The screaming stopped as well; France kept his hands steepled over his mouth and nose, staring at Objiwe. Russia dropped his make-shift paper weapon on the desk and went to the table, offering his hand.

France waved him off sharply. “No, check to make certain it’s dead.”

Russia confirmed it; Objiwe settled down with a tuft of brown between his paws and continued crunching. Russia helped France climb off the table as Canada retrieved France’s shoes.

“Are you okay?”

France nodded mutely before turning to his colony, accepting the proffered shoes one-handed. “Forgive me, Canada; I was completely wrong about your bear- about Objiwe,” he offered with a weak smile, wiping his face with a trembling hand. Canada hugged him tightly around the waist; France stroked his hair, before glancing up and meeting America’s gaze.

A grin spread across America’s face like a wildfire, laughter exploding past good judgment. “Oh my god, you scream like a _baby_. All that over a _rat?_ ”

France shuddered and pressed Canada closer. “They are disgusting-”

“I thought you were _dying_ or something,” America managed to choke out breathlessly. “You were up on the table—” He braced against the wall to support himself as laughter threatened kill his speech entirely. “I thought it’d just be a nasty surprise but _this_ —”

France’s eyes widened with realization. “You horrid child!” he shouted, hurling a shoe as his face blushed scarlet.

America dodged and laughed harder. “How do you ever travel by ship? There are rats everywhere.” He just barely ducked the second shoe, glancing back up to see France trying not to cry again.

Then Canada detached himself from France’s waist, marched directly to America, and punched him.

America staggered back in shock, cheek tingling. Canada was as red in the face as his father, but it wasn’t from embarrassment.

“How can you be so mean?” he demanded, hands balled into fists. “What sort of Christian laughs at someone’s pain? You should be ashamed of yourself!”

America cringed, saw France’s look of pride for his son shining through the hurt, and saw Russia watching him with disappointment.

He turned and fled.

When the watch whistle summoned him for dinner, he almost didn’t go, lingering in the ship’s hold until his stomach grumbled loudly enough to convince him otherwise. He shouldn’t have bothered; when he arrived at the captain’s quarters, France calmly informed him that he would get no supper as punishment for his awful behaviour that afternoon. America felt his face burn as he left and returned to the hold. It was just a harmless prank—how was he to know that France was terrified of rats? He watched one creep up to the edge of the lantern light, sniffing curiously, before slipping back into the darkness. They were just rats; it’s not like he put a copperhead or a rattlesnake in the chest. His stomach rumbled its agreement, and America tucked his knees tighter to his chest.

The sound of someone descending into the hold disrupted his sullen musings. He tried to cover the lantern to shield the light and thus his position, but it was too late—the flickering light of a candle wove its way through the maze of crates, revealing Russia behind it.

“You know, if ship gets water from storm, it will go here first,” he commented as he drew even.

America glanced away. “What do you want?” he mumbled.

Russia crouched within the circle of light, wedged his candle into a crack in the floorboards, and held out a kerchief tied up like a tiny sack. America eyed it, then him, and took it, unwrapping it in his lap to reveal a hunk of bread and cheese. He looked back to Russia.

“Children should eat,” he said, as this explained everything.

“I’m not hungry,” America lied. He wasn’t three—he could handle going to bed without supper.

Russia frowned. “Don’t be proud. Eat,” he ordered.

America scowled and considered arguing, and decided it wasn’t worth it. He picked at the bread; Russia produced a short knife and handed it to him, and America cut off a slice of cheese. Russia settled down with his back to a nearby crate, splitting his attention between America and the sounds of rats in the hold’s darkness. America ignored him, eating the plain fare.

“Many years before…” Russia began slowly. America glanced over at him as he continued. “When Angliya was still pirate, he put France in big box, like, eh… coffin, with rats. No way out. When rats had hunger, they ate France.” He paused. “Nations- we don’t die so easy.”

Goosebumps erupted over America’s skin. “He was _alive?_ ” he asked in a small voice.

Russia nodded. “For very long time, yes. And rats ate him.”

America swallowed his mouthful of food with difficulty. “Oh.”

“So that is why France does not like rats,” Russia concluded unnecessarily, glancing at the rat sniffing his shoe. He wagged his food, and the rat retreated.

America watched a dibble of wax dripping down the candle and pool on the floor. “I didn’t know.”

“I know,” Russia replied.

America studied his face. “You don’t seem angry.”

The empire shrugged. America finished off the last few bites of bread and cheese, his stomach quiet; he offered the empty kerchief to Russia, who tucked it in his pocket and stood, picking up his candle.

“I will not say, do not make tricks on France,” he stated. “But I will say, maybe not tricks with rats.”

America stared; Russia gave him a small smile and left, winding his way back through the crate labyrinth and out of the hold. When the candle light faded completely, America tucked his knees to his chest again, brow furrowed.

Russia made no sense. He didn’t yell at him. He didn’t tell him he was bad for putting a rat in France’s clothes. He didn’t even tell him he shouldn’t play tricks on people—in fact, Russia declared he wouldn’t say that. He just, told America why France was scared of rats and left it at that. And he brought him dinner. That didn’t seem like something one of France’s allies would do, given what America had done. But Russia also hadn’t told France to let America have a proper dinner earlier. Whose side was Russia on?

When America left the hold two watch whistles later, his brain hadn’t come up with any satisfactory answers. Russia didn’t say anything further that night, just got ready for bed as usual. America climbed in under the covers and laid down, listening to Russia settle into the other hammock.

“Good night,” he said in English.

The sounds of settling stopped. America held his breath.

“Good night, America. _Bonne nuit, spokoinoi nochi._ ”

America rolled over and shut his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole, box + live person + live rat, thing is in fact something pirates historically did. As you might imagine, the experience would be excruciating for anyone, never mind a nation that won't immediately die from it.


	10. May 30th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNING:** This chapter contains violence against a minor.

Canada ignored him after the rat incident.

Meals became a miserable affair; they were still seated next to each other, except Canada didn’t look his way once, not even when passing him something. He’d take the dish or bottle from whomever passed it and set it blindly to his right on the table, like he was trying to make space for three. Canada took to studying more in the afternoons after lunch, instead of playing cards or making up plays, keeping to his room save for when he and France took walks around the deck, a perfect little father-son pair.

Almost a fortnight past, and France’s mood had only grown more sullen. He stared off into the distance and sighed at inexplicable moments. Meals were quieter, which would’ve suited America just fine if that didn’t also mean he felt Canada’s icy silence all the more keenly. Whenever France entered a room, his eyes reflexively swept the floor and flicked to the corners; America couldn’t remember if he always did that.

Even if France did have a good reason for not liking rats—America had thought too long about it a few days before and almost lost his appetite for lunch—he needn’t to sulk about it for two weeks. It wasn’t _that_ bad. America had a suspicion that as soon as France stopped moping about, Canada would start speaking to him again. He arranged his toy soldiers across the deck alone and conducted military campaigns against the French, but there were only so many times he could obliterate the enemy with no opposition before that too grew boring.

America picked at a chipped bit of paint on the corner of a Redcoat boot, listening to France play a mournful tune on his violin. He had his feet braced against the railing, resting back into the rigging as if reclining while standing. His frock coat lay abandoned over a nearby barrel, shed in the face of the merciless sun.

America stood and went by the barrel, looking up at France as he drew another long, plaintive note from the violin. His waistcoat was half unbuttoned; it was the most disheveled America had seen him, save the rat incident itself.

“What are you playing?” he asked during a low note.

“Whatever I feel like,” France answered after a moment, eyes cast out to sea.

“It sounds sad.”

France snorted, replying dryly, “That would be an accurate mirror of my mood, _oui_.”

America turned over the toy soldier in his hands a moment before looking back. “Why?”

“Today is an unpleasant anniversary,” France sighed, giving up on his attempts to play, resting the instrument across his lap.

“Why?”

“Is that all you know how to ask, ‘why’?” France shot him a cross look, before his gaze returned to the sea. “Someone very important—a clever, blessed, innocent person— was murdered over a stupid, heretical, and false reason.”

America frowned. “That’s awful.”

“Agreed,” France muttered.

“Who was it?”

“Jeanne d’Arc, La Pucelle d'Orléans.”

America’s mouth opened in a silent ‘o’. “I’ve heard of her.”

France tilted his head ever so slightly in his direction. “Have you…”

“Yes.” He could feel a grin slipping into place. “England told me all about her.”

France barked a laugh. “Then I am pleased to inform you that your education was debased by lies and the wretched fancy of a delusional and vengeful man.”

“England told me she was a witch.”

“Angleterre is the _last_ person with any right to accuse another of witchcraft,” France quipped.

America didn’t know what France meant by that, but it didn’t matter. “She got burnt at the stake, didn’t she? That’s what happens to witches—”

“She was not a witch, you horrid little boy; you could stand to correct yourself before I do,” France snapped, pushing himself off the rigging to stand on the rail, free hand on the rope for support.

“She went about dressed like a boy fighting battles; of course she was a witch—”

France dropped down to the deck in front of him, eyes blazing; he set his violin aside without looking. “She was not a witch; not even Angleterre’s heretical hand-picked farce of a trial could convict her of it—”

America danced back a step or two, continuing, “She probably bewitched them too. Everyone knows that witches are Satan’s whores—”

France lunged, the toy soldier clattering to the deck as he grabbed America’s arm just below the shoulder, wrenching him close. “If you insult my Jeanne one more time—”

“ _Your_ Jeanne? Was she your whore too—”

The slap landed across his face so hard he fell to the ground, tears leaping to his eyes. Then France had him by the elbow, hauling him back to his feet and dragging him across the deck, shouting a series of brisk orders. America dug his heels in, almost fell, and stumbled to keep up, wincing at the metallic ring in his ears.

France whirled back and crouched, working open the buttons on America’s waistcoat one-handed. America tried to bat his hands away, and France slapped him again, hard—America felt a ring cut into his cheek.

“—I am very sorry Angleterre never taught you anything resembling manners, but it is about time _someone_ put the fear of God into you,” France said crisply as he stripped America first of the waistcoat and then of his shirt. America hugged his arms across his chest, ears pink, but then France tugged his arms apart and shoved him flat against an upturned grating. France and another sailor secured his wrists immediately with a bit of rope; the moment they let go, America tested the knots. They didn’t give.

“What are you doing?!” he demanded, pleased that he was able to keep the tremor out of his voice. The wood pressed against his chest and face; he twisted his neck to look behind him. France was rolling up his cuffs. “Upset I know the truth about your witch?”

“I am quite tired of hearing you talk,” France stated, finishing with his cuffs. The bosuns mate handed him a cat o’ nail tails, not quite looking at America; France gave the colony a cold smile. “I’d advise you to shut your mouth, or I shall lash you twenty-four times instead of twelve.”

America’s jaw went slack; he tugged sharply at the wrist ties. “You can’t lash me!”

“Another thing about which you are entirely incorrect,” France noted, swinging the tails up over his shoulder before bringing them down.

Pain _exploded_ across America’s back, lines of fire cutting down from his right shoulder to his left side; he couldn’t hold back the shriek. A second later he clamped his mouth shut, tears blurring his vision. He expected the next blow and choked on a cry, whole body jerking against the grating.

“Will you be impudent with me again?” France demanded.

America didn’t respond, and the third lash fell—he gasped, trying to pull his arms back to his body, anything to shield himself. That was three, that was only three, there were nine more—

“Will you be impudent with me again!” France yelled. America grit his teeth and shook his head.

He screamed when the fourth blow fell, shaking the whole grating as he writhed. The pain mangled itself into words— “ _I hate you! I bloody hate you!_ ”

“Hate me if you will, fear me, but never, ever disrespect me!” France shouted over him.

The blows continued. America shrieked agony and fury and terror, body shaking violently between lashes. Five, six— his legs gave out and the grating kept him upright, the rope digging into his wrists. His voice cracked on a scream.

He heard France sneer, “If you can’t stand it, plead with me to stop.”

He sobbed, lips wordlessly repeating ‘I hate you I hate you’ like a prayer. He wouldn’t beg, no true Englishman begged relief from the master’s whip, he could endure, England would want him to endure— he shook his head. He heard the whistle of the tails cut through the air.

And the blow didn’t fall.

Relief more pure than salvation itself flooded through him, and he slumped into his bonds, eyes shut.

—

France glared. “Get out of the way,” he ordered.

Russia met his gaze without flinching, grip closed like a vice around France’s wrist, the cat o’ nine tails immobilized above them. He slowly forced France’s arm down to head level. His heart thudded in his chest like a drumbeat: a warning, a call to war, a plea to run.

“What, are you doing?” Russia asked, voice low. He had heard the first scream from his room and sat a moment too long, puzzled, before the second one shot him away from his desk towards the deck.

“Instilling much needed discipline,” France stated. He tried to tug his wrist free; Russia didn’t budge, pushing down the sharp urge to snap his wrist.

“He is not yours to discipline.” The crew had truly gathered now, even those who had turned away before, unwilling to watch a child be lashed.

France’s eyes narrowed into stormy blue slivers. “I am the captain of this ship. Everyone on it is mine to discipline as I see fit. And you—” he tugged again, and Russia tightened his grip just a fraction more, feeling bones grind beneath his hand.

France didn’t wince, but his eyes darkened. “You will step aside,” he hissed, “or you will receive the same.”

Russia searched his face as the crew held its breath. He released France’s wrist, then turned his back to him and untied America. He could feel France bristle—he steeled himself for a blow, but it didn’t come.

America moaned when Russia picked him up, face twisted in pain. Rage flared like a sunburst and Russia tamped it down, focusing on priorities.

When he turned back, he met France’s gaze. France returned it, and ordered without looking away, “Monsieur Laurent, escort Captain Braginsky to the sick bay. Then return him here in irons.”

The crowd parted for Russia like the sea, closing in his wake as he went below deck.

The doctor in the sick bay cleared a bed immediately, and Russia sat America on the side of it, held him up by his shoulders. America’s head was still bowed; Russia could hear him whispering, and wondered if he was praying.

“What was that?” he prompted quietly.

America raised his voice for a moment, though not his head. “I hate him. I hate him...”

Ah. A different sort of prayer, still streaked with tears.

The doctor set a box on the bed, and Russia took a breath. “America, doctor needs to- to tend your wounds.” He hesitated a beat. “It will not be pleasant.”

America didn’t respond, and Russia nodded to the doctor, who took a small handful of salt and pressed it into the lash trails. America screamed, head snapping up as he tried to lunge off the table. Russia forced him back, heart twinging. He shifted the squirming child into his lap, a leg to either side of his hips so America was essentially straddling him.

“Keep going,” he ordered the doctor.

When the salt was applied again, Russia kept America pinned against his chest, one hand planted solidly at the base of the colony’s neck, another at the small of his back. America writhed, whimpers and screams competing for which burrowed themselves farther into Russia’s chest. Small hands fisted themselves into his waistcoat, dug into the fabric and skin beneath, shaking from pain. Russia kept his head bowed to America’s hair, shushing and rocking.

After the salt came the bandages. Russia knew each pass ground the salt in deeper, like fragments of glass, and heard this reflected in America’s gasps and shuddering exhales. Finally the doctor was done, moving away with the salt and bandages.

“I hate him,” America repeated mutely, eyes wide as he trembled.

Russia brushed away tear stains and laid America down on his stomach, hand on his head, thumbing through his hair. Lashing was too much. Even cabin boys were only ever caned.

The doctor returned with a small folded-up square of paper. Russia eyed it. “What is it?”

“Opium, for the pain—”

“No,” Russia cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Not opium. You are to never give him opium, or me. Do you understand?”

The man nodded, brows arched. Russia sighed. “Dull it with alcohol. Rum, I suppose.” He crouched by the edge of the bed, saying softly, “America, you rest now, da? Sleep. You will feel better, later.”

America nodded, eyes shut. Russia stood and went to the man lingering by the door, who reached out—Russia snatched his arm away as if scalded.

“You will not touch me. You will not put me in irons. I will walk myself back to the deck, and to the captain,” Russia informed him curtly. The man shrank back, nodding, and followed behind him.

France could have been bluffing. Or maybe not. It was hard to read him when he got worked up about things—Jeanne was one of them. It would explain why he tossed aside all the usual decorum and rules around lashing: twenty-four hours between order and execution, with the perpetrator locked in the brig and commanded to craft the very weapon to be used on him, everyone required to be present in full uniform with the charges read aloud before punishment.

Russia climbed the stairs, and saw the whole of the crew turn to look at him. France was not bluffing then. He stood by the grating, arms crossed; the cat o’ nail tails dripped blood onto the deck.

Russia walked over to him, France uncurling as he did so. They made eye contact.

“ _You understand why I must do it?_ ” France asked.

He took a moment to dismantle the Latin, before nodding shortly. He did understand: France had given him a direct order, and Russia had ignored it, even under threat of punishment. The men on board could not see France back down then, not the captain of the ship. Order must be kept. He had made a mistake to sail with France, he saw that now—despite sharing the same rank, France expected him to bow when on the French fleet. And now it was too late.

He slipped off his frock coat and waistcoat, handing them to the nearest sailor, unbuttoning his cuffs before pulling off the shirt as well. Last came his scarf, carefully folded; he kept his head tucked down ever so slightly as he stepped up to the grating. Two sailors secured his wrists and something slithered up his throat. He swallowed thickly. He was not afraid of France, nor the tails. Just the memories that sent goosebumps over his skin as he felt the eyes of the assembled crowd fix on the scars criss-crossing his back and twining around his neck.

When the first blow fell he flinched, then schooled himself to an immobile calm, casting his mind elsewhere. It had been centuries since he last needed to do it, disentangle soul from body to let the pain pass like this. He was out of practice—the pain crept over him with every lash. He held his breath, kept his mouth shut. The Mongols had hit him harder than that all the time. He repeated the words in his head as he felt the tails open ribbons of skin, and not a sound escaped him.

Twelve lashes fell. France wasn’t furious enough to beat him unconscious then. Had he ever known France to do that? No, he was confusing things, France didn’t behave like that. He felt something trickle down his back, and winced when he shifted his weight. His back burned—he’d be okay, the Mongols hit him harder than that—but he couldn’t ignore it. It had been too long; he had forgotten how to run away from the pain.

When the sailors untied his wrists he staggered—France caught him, and Russia pulled away so sharply they almost both fell. He keep his feet, barely, holding up an arm to ward off France, shaking his head without a word. France’s role in this was done; he didn’t get to soothe a guilty conscious with kind, hollow gestures.

A sailor threaded Russia’s arm over his shoulders and together they walked below deck, Russia leaning heavily to the side. Twelve lashes shouldn’t be enough to require assistance. He’d like to think it wasn’t the pain alone. The weight of the memories clawing at the back of his mind pressed down on him, had him blinking back pain and flickering glimpses of a dark-haired nomad watching from the lantern-cast shadows and he was- was clearly not there, impossible. Russia kept his head bowed, and didn’t look.

The sailor left after depositing him on a bed in the sick bay. The doctor handed him a flask of rum and he drained it, just in time for salt to throw the pain back in his face. He hissed, bracing himself upright with an arm, and focused on breathing. The doctor moved fast, and after a few minutes he could lie down on his stomach, back bound up in bandages.

Russia shut his eyes, saw an old face and forced them open again. America looked at him with dull blue eyes from the pallet across the way.

“What happened?” he slurred at a whisper. The scent of rum told Russia agony wasn’t the culprit.

“France lashed me,” Russia replied.

America stirred, frowning. “Why? I thought you were friends…”

Russia could feel his own drink starting to spread; his laugh was hardly an exhale. “Ha… He ordered me to move away, and I did not.” Attempting to shrug was a mistake; he buried the flinch before America could see. “It does not… does not matter.”

“Does too…” America mumbled.

Russia felt a smile touch his lips, and let his eyes close. “ _Kak ty skazhish’…_ ” He reached out blindly across the short space separating their beds, and gently laid his hand on America’s arm. The colony didn’t pull away. Russia pet him for a moment before letting his hand just rest there.

United in pain. Russia prayed this was not a sign of things to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kak ty skazhish'- so you say


	11. Degrees of Difference

America was running around the deck within the week, all signs of the whipping gone. The ship’s doctor privately confessed to Russia that he had never seen so swift a recovery from lashing, nor so complete—there was not a single scar marring the skin. Russia took this as a sign of America’s excellent health and a portent of things to come. Despite the uncertainty currently facing the colonial economy as it transitioned from English merchant laws to Russian merchant laws, America himself seemed no worse for wear. People were amazingly resilient.

Russia’s back told a different story. His recovery last four days longer than America’s, and even after the doctor released him from the sick bay he felt painful twinges shoot through his muscles at inopportune moments. He told himself that this was due to the several centuries of age he had over America, and not to any foreshadowing of what he’d find once they returned to the capital. It was a pleasant lie—there was an unease growing beneath his skin. The last time he wrote Elizaveta a letter, he accidentally addressed it ‘Emperor’. She would find it funny, he was certain. She did dress like a man for her beloved Metamorphos balls, an event Russia did not miss in his time away. But he hadn’t had an Emperor in decades, so the mistake was strange…

Slips of the pen aside, he had other concerns to address. When Canada emerged from below deck at the end of his lessons, joining America in the colony’s rehearsal of _Julius Caesar_ —thank god one disaster had resolved itself—Russia ducked through the doorway and into the captain’s quarters.

“France, are you here?” he called, using the question to announce himself.

“ _Oui, oui_ ; in my room.”

Russia followed the response, crossing the small sitting room into the private bedroom in back. Sunlight filled the room from the wall of windows that made up the ship’s stern. France sat with his back to him at a mirrored chest of drawers, musing over brooches to wear to luncheon.

He glanced up when Russia entered, watching him in the mirror for a moment before returning to his cuff links. “You’re looking well,” he observed.

“Well enough.” And no thanks to France. Russia took the comment as invitation to approach, stopping a few feet off. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“Ohh doesn’t that sound foreboding,” France drawled lightly. He inspected a mother-of-pearl brooch set in silver, and compared it to one with a gold filigree design. “Are you upset that I whipped you?”

Stupid questions did not get answers. “I’m not here to talk about that. We need to discuss America.”

“That is something worth talking about, isn’t it? He’s rehearsing Shakespeare, you know,” France stated, turning back on his cushioned stool to look at Russia properly. “ _Julius Caesar_. I swear he does it just to torment me.”

“I am almost certain he does not,” Russia replied. “And that is what concerns me—that you see ill will where there is none.”

France gave him a patronizing smile. “That’s almost funny, coming from you.”

Russia chose to ignore that. “I know that America has made a point to challenge you, to rile you up. But his shots are scattered. You are giving America more credit that he deserves.”

“Might I remind you,” France interjected, “that he put, a _rat_ , in my chest of clothes three weeks ago.”

“That would disgust anyone. America didn’t know the extent of your hatred for them.”

“I’m sure Angleterre told him,” the kingdom huffed, turning back to the mirror. “He probably gave the brat a whole list of ways to trouble me.”

“And Angleterre would likely think the same thing about you, if he had gained Canada from this war.” Bad topic, Russia reflected, catching the venomous look France shot him. “I think you’re projecting.”

“Pardon?”

“I think you’re projecting,” Russia repeated. “You’re watching America and seeing all the parallels between him and Angleterre, and all you can see is Angleterre—”

“You’re being ridiculous,” France dismissed, returning his attention to the brooches.

They were not finished. Russia stepped up directly behind France, and saw a line of tension string itself between the man’s shoulders. He continued, “America has only ever heard of you from Angleterre. The only way he knows to interact with you is based on his impressions from Angleterre.”

“Then how do you tell me that he isn’t trying to cause me grief?” France glared at him in the mirror. “Russie, he called her a _whore_ , on the very _day_ —” His voice shook from sheer memory.

Russia almost stepped back. How could this still be such a raw wound for France? It had been nearly three centuries. But Russia knew—three centuries was barely anything. “I am not saying he doesn’t cause you grief, nor that he isn’t trying to do so.” Keeping his voice calm was so hard. “But America is a parrot, as you said. He mimics. Of course there will be similarities between him and Angleterre—that’s inevitable. That does not mean he understands the extent of what he’s doing.”

“He knows well enough—”

“And _that_ is where you are the adult, and he is a child,” Russia stated firmly. “You know he is trying to get a rise out of you—you encourage him every time you respond—”

“ _Oh_ so this is _my_ fault?” France twisted in his seat and Russia took the full brunt of his sharp glare.

“France—”

“I am not going to let him insult me, _or_ Jeanne.” He had one hand braced against the chest of drawers behind him; he could push off and lunge if he wanted. “Not on my ship. Certainly not to my face. That British brat—”

“He is not Angleterre!” Russia barked. France flinched back a half centimeter without realizing, and Russia struggled to lower his voice. “You keep treating him like he is, like he can handle the same level of damage you pitch at Angleterre. Have you noticed, that you have won nearly every encounter with him? Do you think the score would be so favourable if you were _actually_ dealing with Angleterre? No—” he cut off France’s comeback with a swift slice of his hand, insisting, “ _Listen to me._ You are the adult here. It is your responsibility to distinguish between one of Europe’s most powerful empires, _and a child!_ You are destroying any chance of a pleasant relationship with him.”

France stared, still half twisted to face him. “Oh…” he sighed, shutting his eyes as he slowly turned back to the mirror. “I see now… This actually has precious little to do with me.” He opened his eyes, vivid blue reflections capturing Russia’s gaze. “You’re upset because America’s poor behaviour and subsequent discipline makes it harder for him to like _you_.”

Russia opened his mouth, shut it. He replied, “While that is true, that does not negate—”

“I understand now, Russie; it’s clear,” France said lightly. He picked up the mother-of-pearl cuff link and began feeding into his shirt cuff. “You can go now.”

Russia saw red. “France.” He dropped his hands onto the nation’s shoulders, felt him bristle instantly, eyes snapping back to his in the mirror. Russia held his gaze without so much as a waver. “Let me be truly clear.” He leaned down, face by France’s ear; they didn’t break eye contact. “Stop. _Fucking_. With. My. Colony.”

France radiated fury, eyes blazing. “Russie. Get off me,” he said, voice clipped and cold.

It was a test, Russia knew it was a test. After a pause, he straightened, hands still resting on France’s shoulders. “Do we have an understanding?” he asked, tone as close to normal as he could manage.

“Oui,” France bit out past gritted teeth.

Russia removed his hands and stepped back. “I’ll see you during luncheon,” he bowed. He waited a short beat; France didn’t reply, so Russia took his leave.

—

France didn’t speak to him during luncheon, or for the rest of the day. Russia felt a little bad for Canada, who read the tension hovering over the table like God had spelled it out in block print letters without knowing the context. America didn’t seem to notice, which was probably for the best. Russia ignored the tension, clinging to his earlier fury like a lifeline. He had broken all the unwritten rules in the section of France’s mental book titled ‘How Civilized Adults Address Their Problems’. After the lashing, Russia suspected that France currently saw their relative positions as skewed enough that were Russia to inspect this non-existent book, France would direct him to the chapter titled ‘How to Shut One’s Mouth When One Disagrees with One’s Betters’. And so Russia was not going to apologize for telling France to leave America alone, or for anything else in that conversation.

France’s silence persisted into the next day, and Russia continued to ignore it. He worked on the report of his initial impressions of the colonies, read, whittled toy soldiers for America… When he felt too trapped in his head, he prayed.

On the third day of silence, when he presented America with a model canon to start building an artillery regiment in his toy army, America rushed to rearrange the lines spread out over the room’s floor. But then he slowed and stopped, sitting back on his heels to look at Russia.

“Are, you and France fighting?” he asked, eyes half squinted like he could bring a picture into focus.

So America wasn’t completely oblivious. Russia brushed aside the relief to answer the query with a question of his own. “Why you- why do you think this?”

“Because… I don’t think he said anything to you at breakfast. Or, at dinner…” His brow furrowed. “Actually, I didn’t see him say anything to you at all yesterday.”

Russia hummed. America did notice things then; he just didn’t realize their significance right away. But that could be trained. “This is different?”

“Yes,” America answered, as if he thought Russia was being particularly dense. “Normally he talks to you all the time, he doesn’t shut up at meals. But it seems like he’s not been talking as much, and only to Canada. Or he bothers me,” he grumbled.

“So you think this means that we are fighting?” The tone wasn’t accusatory, just questioning.

“Probably.”

Russia leaned back in the desk chair. He didn’t know how well he would manage this in English, but he’d try. “Why people- why _do_ people fight?”

America gave him a funny look. “Because they’re angry with each other?”

“So why France is angry with me?”

“Because you stopped him from whipping me.”

“And why I am angry with France?”

“Because he whipped you even though you’re supposed to be friends,” America said, again in a tone that suggested the answers were obvious. Also that the French were impossible to understand.

Russia nodded; understandable reasoning so far. “And you know France is angry with me, because he is not talking to me.”

“Yes.”

Russia tilted his head slightly. “So how you know I am angry with France?”

The furrow between America’s brows returned. “Aren’t you?”

“Not important,” Russia dismissed. “How you know I am angry with France?”

“I don’t…” America shook his head a bit.

Russia let it rest a few seconds, then prompted, “What do you see?”

The furrow deepened as America’s eyes searched his face. “I know you’re angry with France…” he started slowly. “Because… because normally, you talk with him in the afternoons, or evenings, when Canada and I play. Only you haven’t, have you? You’ve been, writing and reading and such like…”

Russia kept his expression neutral in spite of the smile that wanted the appear. “So? Maybe I want to do different things.”

“Yeah, but France isn’t talking to you,” America pointed out. “That’s strange.”

“Maybe it’s strange. You always think, France is strange.” Russia shrugged.

“But this is different.”

“Why?” he pressed.

America scowled. “It just is!”

Russia let a pause hang between them, hoping America would settle a bit. He was doing well. “What do you see? How you- how do you know it is different?”

America shifted, fiddling with a toy soldier as he mumbled, “I just do.”

Russia let that rest too, then wondered, “What about Canada?”

“What about him?” America muttered.

“What do you see, with Canada?”

America glanced back up, then away. Russia imagined he could see the colony’s mind sorting through thousands of puzzle pieces it didn’t realize it had, trying to find the ones that fit the picture. “I guess…” America started, fingers absently tracing the brim of the toy soldier’s hat. “I guess he’s been awfully nervous, hasn’t he? More than usual, I mean… And quiet, at meals.”

“What do this tell you?” Russia asked. “Does, this tell you,” he added, correcting the grammar. Damn English, honestly…

“That he _knows_ something’s wrong,” America decided. Perhaps a quick conclusion to reach, but accurate in this case, and Russia felt his smile win over and curve his lips.

America gave him a suspicious look. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because you did well.” America blinked, frowning, and Russia elaborated, “You saw the pieces. People are like puzzles; when you see the pieces, then you can understand.”

“So you and France _are_ fighting,” America said triumphantly.

Russia shrugged. “I guess. I am not angry, not really.”

America snorted. “Sure. That’s why you grit your teeth when France tells you what to do.”

Russia stopped, jaw loose, smothering the look of surprise as he turned towards the desk. “ _Kak ty skazhish’_.”

“What’s that mean?”

“So you say,” Russia translated, glancing back. America had never asked the meaning before.

The colony laid flat on his stomach and return to rearranging his soldiers. “ _Kak tea ska-shish_ ,” he repeated.

Russia looked back to his writing to hide the smile.


	12. Willpower

Two days later, France addressed Russia during breakfast. Russia replied as he always did, as if France hadn’t been ignoring him for nearly a week. Which wasn’t quite how America would’ve done it; he would’ve ignored France for at least another day, see how he liked it. When France wasn’t looking, Russia caught America’s eye and gave a brief, knowing smile. America hid a grin in his tea cup—they had a secret, and that secret was that America had figured it out, and France didn’t know.

Next to him, Canada visibly relaxed over the course of the meal. America noticed, and took this as a sign that now all was well. When breakfast was over, America caught up to Russia in the hall. “France isn’t angry at you any more,” he declared.

Russia glanced down at him. “How do you know?”

“Because he spoke with you at breakfast. And you answered,” America replied, chin up. “And Canada’s not nervous now.”

“Very good,” Russia nodded. America’s heart leapt, but then the empire added, “What else maybe is true?”

He blinked. “What?”

Russia stopped at the door to their room. “What else maybe is true? Maybe France is still angry.”

“But he spoke with you at breakfast,” America protested.

“Yes,” Russia agreed. “So maybe this means he is not angry now. Maybe not. What else maybe is true?”

America frowned. Why would there be another answer?

Russia gave him a warm smile. “I will let you think about this, yes? Tell me after lunch, what you know.” He vanished into the room, and America went on deck, walking stern to bow on port side, then bow to stern on starboard.

What else maybe is true? America amended the question to a smoother, what else might be true? He supposed pretending that one wasn’t angry wasn’t so strange—didn’t he himself do that occasionally? Usually to avoid a fight. But France clearly didn’t care about that. Was he lonely? But if he was, why talk to someone he was angry at? The ship was full of people, and he had Canada. Though Russia was a grown-up, France probably thought that was better…

What else might be true? America traced the rigging with his eyes, naming each part in his mind, before fishing out the short length of practice rope. He settled down on a crate and let his fingers twist the rope in and out of knots. What else might be true? If France didn’t care about fighting and wasn’t lonely, then what did he want? Oh— America’s fingers stilled a moment before they continued. France wanted something. Of course. But what did he want, badly enough to pretend not to be angry? France would pretend to be friends with Russia again… so he could whip America again if he misbehaved? But the colony didn’t think Russia would let that happen—though if France tried to whip _Russia_ again for stopping him, then maybe Russia wouldn’t bother to intervene.

Why _did_ Russia stop France? America hadn’t bothered to ask—stopping France from whipping him seemed like the obvious correct thing to do, one that didn’t need an explanation. But it had gotten Russia whipped, and then France stopped talking to Russia. Did that happen after the whipping, or later? America couldn’t remember… But that still didn’t answer why Russia stopped France. It was the right thing to do, clearly, but…

Did Russia want something too? America frowned, untying a double-8 and flipping the rope into a bowline. How would stopping France allow Russia to get anything from him? The move had only infuriated France and gotten Russia whipped. Unless… unless Russia didn’t want something from France. Maybe he wanted something from America.

That much was believable. Russia wanted America to learn French and Russian, and be Russian—hadn’t he written out a list of things he wanted America to study, so America would become Russian? That still didn’t explain how stopping France and getting himself whipped would help—unless he was trying to get America to like him.

America tugged the bowline closed; it tightened like a noose over his finger, and he started to work it open. Russia wanted the colony to think he was, some sort of hero, bravely halting an injustice even though he was hurt in return—all because he wanted America to like him, so America would agree to become Russian. America bet that if Russia didn’t want anything from him, he would’ve _let_ France whip him. Maybe even helped.

Well, didn’t matter now. America had figured it out. Puzzle pieces, indeed. He wondered if any people did good things simply because it was _the right thing to do_. That’s what he did…

—

Russia read America’s sullen, downcast stance the minute he came to lunch. It didn’t change during the course of the meal, but it was a recognizable state. America sulked more than he did anything else, it seemed. He wondered if America had gotten chided by one of the sailors, but as the realization stole over him that America was directing that stony disapproval towards him, he suspected something different.

He wondered if France had gotten to him. The kingdom had ducked into Russia’s room at one point that morning, while Canada was working on a longer writing assignment. France had taken his hands and kissed his cheeks, asking, “Are we alright then?”

Russia heard the sheen of hope over it. “Of course.” France kissed him and he felt the warmth spread all the way to his toes.

Russia wasn’t angry at him. _Sure, that’s why you grit your teeth when France tells you what to do._

It wasn’t until after France left that it occurred to Russia that France hadn’t apologized. He wasn’t surprised, but it painted a funny-coloured layer over the whole picture.

He listened to France’s pleasant chatter over lunch, and when they parted, Russia sent Canada ahead to the deck and turned his attention to America.

America came to a stop in the hallway, glaring at the breadth of Russia’s shoulders in the narrow hall.

“France is talking to you because he wants something from you, I don’t know what,” America stated bluntly. “Let me go to Canada.”

Russia frowned. Something was wrong. “What else?”

“Well I know _you_ want something from me,” America scowled.

“What—”

“But it’s not going to happen, so you can give up now,” America finished, and tried to squeeze past.

Russia caught him by the shoulder. “Wait, America-”

“Let me go!” The force of the shout coupled with the colony’s sudden twist meant that Russia almost lost him; he closed a second hand around America’s elbow and forced him to stay.

“America, what are you talking about—”

“You want me to like you, so I’ll agree to betray England and become Russian. That’s why you stopped France from whipping me two weeks ago, isn’t it?” he accused. He jerked back, but Russia’s grip didn’t give. “You don’t actually care about me at all-”

Russia watched as the whole conversation, the whole exercise, plunged away from him. “That’s not true—”

“I don’t believe you- let me go!” America aimed a sharp kick at Russia’s shin. Unexpected pain jolted through him, swept aside by fury. Russia yanked America to him and hauled him off the ground.

America shouted at full volume now, flailing in a wild attempt to escape; his elbow clip Russia’s temple. Russia managed to get two feet down the hall with the writhing, raging colony in his grip, knocking the door to their room open with his shoulder as America landed another glancing blow off Russia’s kneecap. Russia shifted, grabbing America by the back of the collar—he made a short choking sound as Russia wrenched him into the air. Russia didn’t quite toss America into the room, but it was close. The colony hit the floor with a thud, scrambling to his feet instantly; Russia slammed the door closed during the recovery and braced it shut—America’s weight collided with it seconds later.

“Let me out!” he screamed, fists pounding the door.

Russia kept it shut, knuckles white around the latch. His arms were shaking, not just from the reverberations off the door. His shin and temple and knee tingled; he grit his teeth. He absolutely had to keep the door shut. In his mind’s eye, he saw America swing his small fists into Russia’s chest, and he knew America couldn’t actually hurt him, couldn’t do any real damage. Russia wasn’t afraid of getting hurt. But he didn’t know what would happen if there wasn’t a door between them.

A good solid kick from the other side, and the pounding stopped. Russia didn’t move, heart hammering in his ears. Then he heard a metallic scrap, and something click. Blinking, he tried the door. America had locked it.

Russia let out a shaky breath, releasing the latch. His feet carried him to the dark of the hold before he realized where he was headed. He slid down against a crate, rubbing his arms until the trembling stopped, trying to slow his heart. Then he went to France.

France looked up from his book when he heard the door, and his face somersaulted from curiosity to alarm. “Russie, what’s wrong?” he asked, quickly putting the book aside to stand.

Russia wondered what he must look like to illicit that reaction. “America and I fought.”

“Yes, I heard his shouting. What happened?” France came over and stopped within arm’s reach.

How to explain it? “He got upset— he locked himself in the room.”

“Oh such a brat-” France started, but Russia shook his head.

“No, it’s good. I—” He looked away, tucking his hands up under his arms as if to ward off a chill. “I, wanted to hurt him.”

He felt his stomach sink in the little pause that followed. “And did you?” France asked.

“No,” Russia answered hastily. “I shut him in the room.”

“And then he locked the door?”

Russia nodded.

France laid a hand on Russia’s arm. “You did _good_ ,” he insisted.

Russia let his eyes trace the carved pattern on the leg of the dining table. “I shouldn’t have felt that in the first place.”

“There’s more rejoicing to be had over one father who feels the urge to beat his child and resists, than a hundred fathers who have never felt it and so never have. Discipline should be controlled and intentional,” France stated, guiding Russia by the arm to the cushioned bench built into the wall under a window.

Russia let himself be seated and France settled directly next to him, thighs and shoulders touching. This is why he hadn’t been concerned when France wouldn’t speak to him—the man needed contact, and there was no one else to get it from but Russia.

France continued, “Though, it’s almost guaranteed that you will have to discipline him at some point in the future. He can’t be allowed to run amok and never face the consequences of his actions.” The kingdom leaned forward an inch, trying to catch his eye. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

Russia chewed on the inside of his lip. “There are many ways to discipline a child. Kiev never beat me,” he added, as if this proved his point.

“He would have when you were older.” Russia flashed him an ugly look and France defended, “ _All_ boys seek to test the limits of their father’s authority as they get older. It’s simply the nature of things.”

“Did you?” Russia demanded.

“Oh absolutely!” France chuckled, a rueful edge to his voice. “And Rome beat the _lights_ out of me for it.”

Russia hunched his shoulders. “I don’t want to do that,” he mumbled.

“Then you might just have to accept having a little hellion,” France shrugged.

“There are better ways to discipline a child,” Russia repeated.

France hummed. “I’m not sure you’re doing him any favours, Russie. He’s a nation-child—if he doesn’t learn how to take a beating from you, who will he learn it from instead?”

Russia didn’t answer, sinking lower onto the bench. France rested his hand on Russia’s thigh in what Russia suspected was meant to be a comforting gesture, as if to help him come to terms with the harsh realities of raising a child. He knew fathers switched their children, he knew refusing to so much as box America’s ears would get him looks of confusion or, as France had so aptly demonstrated, suggestions that he was going against the natural order of life. As if hitting one’s child was a good and necessary part of childhood, and that by refusing, Russia was somehow doing America harm. Making him weak.

France broke the silence. “So what has your dear colony so worked up this afternoon, hm? He seemed in good spirits after breakfast.”

“That means nothing. He was England’s ward.”

“I can’t tell if you’re saying that America is thus also fickle and unpredictable, or that he’s stubborn and unreasonable,” France grinned.

“Both,” Russia replied flatly, then hesitated. He did not want to ruin their newly-forged peace by explaining that he had provoked America into puzzling out France’s motives. “Yesterday we had a conversation, and I prompted him to consider the motives behind people’s actions. It seems this morning he decided that all of the nice things I am doing are to trick him into betraying England and becoming Russian, so now he’s furious.”

France stared for a moment, before an incredulous smile grew. “Oh well done, Russie. Good job. Why on earth did you think an _eight_ -year-old needed to discern motive?”

Russia felt his cheek colouring. “I could discern motive at his age.” At least most of the time.

“Yes,” France nodded, grin still in place. “You also had a lunatic actively trying to kill you at regular intervals. Different situation, different needs.”

Russia groaned, dropping his face to his hands, elbows propped on his knees. “I didn’t think he’d turn those skills towards me.”

“Well that was plainly a mistake,” France noted. Russia gave him a baleful look. “On the bright side, it suggests that he has at least has a possible base from which one can sculpt a good politician.”

Russia grunted, returning his face to his hands. “I can’t get any work done now; America’s locked in the room,” he grumbled.

“You could always pick the lock. Or break down the door,” France observed.

Russia gave a short laugh, commenting dryly, “Yes, this will help me repair the current damage.”

He felt, rather than saw, France’s careless shrug. “Well, since you can’t get to any of your things…” The hand resting on Russia’s thigh slide a few inches inward; Russia lifted his face to catch the wicked curve of France’s lips. “You’ll just have to find other ways to occupy your afternoon.” The innocent tone did not match his expression.

Russia shook his head before cupping France’s cheek in his hand. “You are impossible,” Russia murmured, stroking his thumb across the silk-soft skin of France’s lips. France turned to press a kiss into his palm.

Russia threaded his fingers farther back into France’s hair and pulled him forward, deciding that if America wanted time to cool off in the room, he could have it. Russia had his own methods.

—

They finished rearranging their clothes and brushing out France’s tangled hair just as the watch whistle signaled dinner and summon the two colonies to France’s quarters. America ducked under the cook as the man ferried in food and slumped into his seat. It would clearly be one of those dinners then. But they were more than half way done with the voyage and were well-practiced in their response. France carried the conversation, Russia and Canada prompted him and replied where they should, and they collectively ignored America. Russia hadn’t decided yet if that was the best response, though it seemed than any attempt to engage America in that mood resulted in a fight. Until Russia discovered a better option, it would have to do.

America finished his food before them, undistracted by conversation, and kicked his feet under the table. Just as France reached the resolution of a story, America heaved a sigh.

France rolled his eyes. “America, do try to keep your foul mood to yourself? You’ll spoil dinner for the rest of us.”

“France, do try to keep your foul person to yourself? You’ve already spoiled dinner for the rest us,” America mocked.

Oh no. France’s eyes narrowed; Russia opened his mouth but the kingdom beat him to an answer, “Your manners are terrible. No wonder Angleterre saw fit to sign you away.”

Russia started, “France—”

“ _Ferme ta gueule_!”

France choked. He coughed, gasping to breathe through the wine he inhaled. Canada gaped in open-mouthed shock.

America scrambled to stand on his chair, taking advantage of France’s inability to speak to shout, “ _Alle niquer ta m_ _êre, fils de pute!_ ”

Russia leapt to his feet and wrapped an arm across America’s chest, pinning him backwards as he clapped a hand over the colony’s mouth, muffling a furious snarl.

“You— how dare you—” France recovered enough to wheeze, his face an ugly shade of red.

“I guess now we know how much French he’s learned from the crew,” Russia commented lightly; America tried to slip out of his grip and he hugged the boy to himself tighter. “I think we’re done; if you’ll excuse us-”

He didn’t wait for France’s leave, and hauled America away for a second time in six hours. He kept a hand firmly lodged over America’s mouth until Russia got them back to their room, with the door shut.

“Why did you think that was a good idea?” he demanded in French as he set America down.

He immediately backed out of arm’s reach. “You heard what he said! As if England would ever really sign such an terrible thing—”

“America, Angleterre already signed the treaty.”

The colony stopped. “What?”

“Angleterre already signed the treaty,” Russia repeated, uncertain how much of the French America had parsed. “He signed the treaty before we left Boston.”

America’s shoulders dropped, his rage extinguished like a hearth fire doused with water. “He… already signed it?” he asked in a small voice.

Russia grimaced, realizing both that America had a fairly good understanding of the French used, and that he hadn’t realized the treaty had been concluded. “Yes, he did,” he answered softly.

America stood there, gaze dropping to the floor, eyes flicking over options and choices and outcomes that weren’t actually there. Russia recognized that look—it was the expression of someone whose last hope had been wrenched out from under them, a final betrayal to trigger the realization that it was over, whatever ‘it’ was, and they could not go back.

America sucked in a thin, dazed breath. “I feel sick,” he said.

Russia lunged for the wash bowl and got in front of America just in time for the colony to hit his knees and retch. He bit the inside of his cheek as America heaved, limbs trembling, a handful of tears splattering onto the remains of his dinner.

“America…” He laid his hand gently on the colony’s back.

The boy flinched as if branded. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped, edging away. “Just leave me alone.”

Something cracked in Russia’s chest, the splinters lodging themselves some place soft and tender. Each inhale hurt.

He wrapped his arms around America and the colony hissed, snarling, twisting to try and get away, balled up fists thumping against Russia’s chest. He couldn’t feel it. He didn’t move, kept America caged within his embrace, and slowly the struggling stopped, America’s whole body shaking as he sobbed.

“I hate you,” he gasped between heart-wrenching moans, voice barely above a whisper. “I hate you, and I hate France.”

Russia felt the words sink in like weights. “I know,” he whispered. His eyes burned. _He’s mourning_ , France said, as if the process had concluded the day it began, completed when America descended from the rigging. France, Russia concluded, had no idea what the fuck he was talking about.

The sobbing subsided; America shifted awkwardly, refused to meet Russia’s eyes when he pulled back. Russia let him. I’m sorry would sound hollow, like a lie; Russia watched him a moment longer, then went to pray in front of the icons.

Please let America find solace. True solace, not something borne of the misguided belief that none of this was _actually_ happening, that there might yet be an escape. All this time, America had thought— what? That once they reached France, there would be an English force waiting there, ready to spirit him away to London and back across the sea to Boston, to home and safety? A ridiculous hope, but Russia couldn’t blame America for clinging to it, could he? He had done something similar as a child himself. Even when he learned that Kiev was dead, a tiny piece of him held out, waiting for Byzantium to come to the aid of a fellow Orthodox Christian brought low by heathens. And then Byzantium signed a peace treaty with them and sent an envoy bearing gifts—

Parallels. Clear, obvious parallels. America was like him, which made him like—

Bile rose in his throat. He crossed himself quickly.

He was _not._ He _would not_. He was better than that. He was. He had proof! Just earlier, America had kicked him, and he had shut America in the room, even though he wanted to hurt him- God, that he had even wanted to hurt him—

Tears stung his eyes. He wouldn’t be like that. He wouldn’t be like _him_. He refused.

Russia shoved aside the invasive thoughts and prayed, murmuring the Jesus Prayer in a continuous litany.

From his place kneeling on the floor, forehead touching the ground, he heard America move behind him, readying for bed. There was a long pause of quiet, and Russia reassured himself America could not possibly see the silent tears. Then the candles went out.

Russia prepared for bed in darkness, and mouthed the usual ‘good night’ he said to America as he settled into the hammock.

That night, he had nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ferme ta gueule: shut your fucking mouth. It literally means 'shut your mouth', but specifically uses the word for mouth used with animals, not people, and so carries a stronger punch that simply 'shut up'.
> 
> Alle niquer ta mêre, fils de pute: go fuck your mother, you son of a whore


	13. Ivan Kupala

Russia explained the previous night’s incident to France after breakfast the following day; France winced and made a sound of understanding. Russia left out the part when he realized the parallels. It occurred to him that perhaps France had already noticed said parallels, and simply hadn’t said anything out of a sense of, politeness. Somehow that made Russia’s discovery worse.

The mood between the four of them sank to an all-time low. Russia watched his own movements like a sharp-eyed falcon, guarding against anything that seemed too… not like himself. Too Other. The vigilance cast a dull pallor over him, stifling soft smiles and bemused grins. America, he noted, seemed to almost retreat into himself for a few days; Russia saw him tucked into corners around the ship, that favourite leather-bound book of his open on his lap regardless of whether he was actually reading it or staring out blankly over the sea.

Canada fretted over his friend; France and Russia both reassured him on more than one occasion that no, America was not angry at him, he was only… still adjusting to everything. They were sure he’d come around again soon. Well, France seemed sure of this; Russia was worried that America was sliding into a dark depression, that one morning he’d wake to find the colony missing from the ship, with the only reachable conclusion being that he had stepped overboard.

Russia thought he should probably talk to America, but the vague conviction never coalesced into anything possible. Talk to America… about what? That he understood what he was suffering? That was certain to lead to questions Russia didn’t want to answer. Not yet, at least. He wanted to comfort America, not… give him worse things to think about.

Besides, what if America noticed the parallels? Bad enough the back of Russia’s head continued to whisper them as the days progressed; he didn’t know what would happen if America said them aloud.

A week passed, America remained on the ship, and gradually his mood crawled back to something upbeat and cheerful. France nodded as if to say, you see? Everything sorted itself in the end. But then Russia found himself comforting a crying Canada twice in five days: once because while playing pirates, America got too carried away and knotted a bit of rope around Canada’s wrists so tight they went numb; and again because during a reenactment of Saint George and the Dragon, America—naturally as Saint George—cracked his wooden sword into the side of Canada’s head so hard he nearly dropped him. As Russia held a stunned and howling Canada, pressing a kerchief to the bloody gash on his head and silently marveling at the fact that the colony was still conscious at all, he studied the faintly ill expression clouding America’s features. He obviously didn’t mean to hurt Canada, but his play was still more… aggressive than usual.

If France had been cross as the rope-tying incident—“Taking straight after Angleterre, I swear it runs in the blood!”—he was livid when summoned to the deck only to find his colony bloodied. Russia had handed Canada over and immediately removed America from the deck, retreating to their room before France could shout further declarations of America’s character. Russia kept America out of sight for the next few hours and mostly ignored France’s accusations that Russia was ‘encouraging America’s poor behaviour by failing to discipline him properly’.

Despite this, a day later France arranged for as spectacular dinner as the cook could manage with half the voyage’s provisions gone. America and Canada looked as surprised as Russia felt when they sat down to a meal of ham soup and grilled… some sort of meat.

America asked the obvious question once prayers were concluded. “What’s this?” He prodded the unknown meat with his fork. At the pause, he scowled and snapped his question in French. Since America’s ill-timed reveal of his French knowledge, France had stopped using English entirely and refused to acknowledge America if the boy didn’t use French.

“Shark!” France pronounced gleefully. Canada’s eyes went wide as America gave the fellow colony a confused look.

As Canada attempted to describe a shark, Russia looked to France. “What did you do?”

“Sent out the harpooning ship to fetch a shark,” he smiled. “Marinated the fillets in wine, then grilled them over a metal grate I had rigged above the brick fire pit. The salt from the cured ham has been diluted by the ale that serves as the soup stock—”

“No no, I mean—” Russia interrupted France’s pleased-with-himself explanation as America made a sound of understanding. “Why?”

France blinked. “It’s June 24th.”

Russia opened his mouth, closed it.

“What’s special about June 24th?” America asked, looking between them.

“It’s Russie’s Name Day.” France lifted his wine glass; the colonies mirrored him after a second of confusion. “To you, _mon cher_. Happy Name Day.”

Russia nodded as they clicked their glasses together. That France had remembered at all, and decided to do something about it…

A miniature debate about what shark tasted like ended in a four way agreement that shark was like fish, chicken, scallops, and pork all at the same time. Russia decided the lack of disastrous argument probably constituted a Name Day miracle—the whole pleasant meal did. The wine marinade for the shark was doubly apparently after his four glass of wine. When he realized that America had gotten rather pink in the cheeks and a little loud, he confiscated and finished America’s second full glass of wine as well.

Canada had become rambunctious as well, so when the meal was finished the nations made certain that all wooden weapons were removed from Russia’s room when they delivered the colonies there. Then kingdom and empire returned to France’s quarters.

Russia wandered over to sit on the edge of the bed, waiting as France locked the door and came over. He sat directly next to the arctic nation, hand on his thigh.

“What do you think?” he asked, chin tilted up in expectation of praise.

Russia couldn’t resist. “By my calendar, the Feast of Saint John-Baptiste is still eleven days off.”

France blinked, and his expression crashed. “Oh, dammit, I forgot you still use the old calendar—” he scowled, half turning away.

“No no, I’m not upset,” Russia assured him, catching his face gently between his wide palms and redirecting him. France shivered at the sudden cold, and Russia licked his lips, continuing, “I’m sorry; that was mean. Thank you for the dinner. It… You didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense,” France dismissed, pushing Russia’s hands aside. “I only wish I could have done more. Do you remember, last year—”

“After Monmouth? Yes, we marched back to Trenton- no, Perth Amboy?” Russia struggled to remember the strange-sounding names. He rested his hand over one of France’s. “You threw a party for me at the governor’s house. Everyone wore wreaths.”

_“Oui_ , the wine cellar there was more than sufficient for a good party,” France chuckled. “You made me jump over a bonfire, do you—”

“Yes, I remember,” Russia said with a grin. France hadn’t wanted to at all, at first, and after he managed once, hadn’t wanted to stop. Russia and his men amazed the French troops by leaping over the bonfires directly into a roll; they dared the French to mimic them. That was called off when one burned a gaping hole through his hose and had to get the resulting burn wrapped.

Russia and France had leapt over a bonfire together, hands clasped, and their hands had slipped apart mid-jump. France hadn’t seemed to notice, and Russia didn’t tell him what it meant.

“You’ve got that look again, Russie, like you’re thinking of something unpleasant,” France frowned. He stood, announcing, “But I’ve just the thing to brighten sulky bears.”

Russia gave a rueful snort as France unlocked the small lacquered chest that served as his spice cabinet while on campaign. In Russia’s opinion it was entirely too fancy to haul around in a war camp, especially given that France also carefully packed a few tea cups in it. But France did not consider good food an indulgence so much as a God-given right, so the heavy little chest was as indispensable as his weapons kit.

France repacked the pieces he had removed—small wooden boxes full of spice, a tiny metal cylinder with a grate cut into one side—and sat back down, offering the loosely cloth-wrapped bundle in his palm.

Russia unwrapped it, pushing cloth aside to find waxed paper, unfolding that to discover— He blinked, looking up at France. “Chocolate? How do you still have chocolate?”

“I found the last piece in all of Boston, just before we set sail,” France smiled, blue eyes warm. “I’ve been eating it very slowly.”

Russia nodded, glancing at the sweet. Only a small chunk remained, barely a finger digit’s worth.

France’s smile deepened. “Lay back,” he suggested, pushing on the nation’s broad shoulders.

Russia laughed an exhale and complied, stretching back onto the bed, shutting his eyes when France said to. He felt France swing a leg over to straddle his waist, a pleasantly heavy weight settling onto him.

“Open your mouth.”

Russia did so, and a moment later the thinnest sliver of chocolate was placed on his tongue.

“Savour it,” France instructed as Russia closed his mouth, eyes remaining shut. “Let it melt, slowly, tasting each nuance of flavour as it unfurls…”

“You’re a poet—” Russia started, but France hushed him, finger on his lips. His hips rocked forward slightly in the gesture; Russia kept his hands in their resting place on the bed.

France fed him waifs of chocolate this way, spinning out marvelous descriptions of the taste, the sensation of melting, the bitterness underlying the sweet. Russia was aware of the slight differences among the individual pieces, of the minute pitches in France’s weight as he leaned forward to bequeath the next bite, the way his thighs tensed to counter the ever-constant rocking of the ship.

When France’s lips pressed against his own, Russia was not the least bit surprised. He kept his eyes shut, capturing France’s shoulders by feel alone and pulling him down, into deeper kisses and luxuriating touches from shoulder to hip to ankle. He loosened the bundle of silk at France’s throat, and when France gently slid it from his hands, pressing it over Russia’s eyes and securing it behind his head, Russia let him.

Distantly, he thought the little ones had probably fallen asleep by now. If he could feel the warm, sleepy slosh of wine in his veins, they didn’t stand a chance.

But he didn’t dwell on these thoughts for long. He couldn’t have if he wanted to, not with France’s tender fingertips tracing the map of his limbs, his chest…

\--

The good mood from the evening before persisted to in the next day, though Canada was permitted to skip lessons and lay in bed for the morning. Russia saw the way America winced at sunlight during breakfast and asked the colony if he’d like to do the same. America refused, threw up a half hour later, and retired to bed with a stubborn grumble. He spent the day wavering amongst napping, studying Russia while he sat at the desk and wrote, and reading his little leather-bound book.

There was an undercurrent still about the boy, something that hadn’t quite left after America’s realization about the treaty. Russia couldn’t pin-pointed exactly what it was, not an acceptance, surely, but perhaps a… resignation of sorts. The wariness was still there, Russia could feel it when America’s gaze tracked him across the room. But the almost inaudible sighs were new, and he didn’t know what to do about them, if he should do anything about them… It didn’t seem like a question to bring to France, so he sat with it, writing out his thoughts into long, one-sided discussions in which his mind took up all possible sides. Eventually he decided to let time take its course.

Two days after Ivan Kupala, as the oppressive repetition of sea life began to sink in once more, France altered Canada’s lessons. The more book-intensive studies would take place before lunch as usual, and the afternoon would now be dedicated to fencing. France extended the offer to Russia, who considered it only briefly before accepting. The constant sea wind would keep off the awful heat, and if he continued sitting for the remainder of the voyage, he was likely to grow cross, if not round.

—

America watched France, Russia, and Canada troop onto deck, a bundle of thin rapiers tucked under France’s arm. He set them down by the main mast as Russia and Canada arranged themselves in front of him, spaced too widely for military drills. When America saw that all they were doing were stretches—how they could stand to move like that, in public, was beyond him—he shifted his attention back to the book of poems, thumbing through the pages with all the despondency of a man lost at sea.

Not for the first time did America wonder if there was some secret message he was missing here. England had obviously selected and copied the entries himself; America traced his fingers over the ink and imaged England sitting up late at night, guttering candle by his side, as he painstakingly searched his bookshelf for his favourite lines. He probably recorded some from memory—all the Shakespeare sonnets, he suspected. The amount of time it would’ve taken him to fill the commonplace book, even a thin one like this, told America that England had made time to do so. It didn’t seem right that such a labour of love would lack a deeper message. And it was a labour of love, he told himself firmly, regardless of what the treaty said.

France’s voice drifted across the deck now; America glanced up to see that the group had finished stretching, attention on France still as he paced out a long, narrow rectangle on the deck. Russia only glanced at the other nation, retrieving a rapier from the base of the mast; France did as well once he returned. America sat up a little higher in his barrel-stack seat, watching Russia and France shed their frock coats and step into the imaginary rectangle, bantering as they turned to face each other. Then they fell silent.

They saluted with their rapiers, bowing slightly to each other before shifting into a wide, low stance.

France tucked his free arm behind his back. “Ready, Russie?” he called.

Russia barely nodded. Canada looked between them, then declared, “Play!”

America’s eyes widened as the two nations sprang into movement. Their blades rang out crisp, metallic clicks with every parry; their feet shuffled rapidly to and fro, never crossing. France lunged, blade snapping forward; Russia deflected at the last possible moment and struck back, but France had already darted back, rapier twisting—

“ _Touché!_ ” Canada announced. The two dropped out of their stances instantly, France chiding, “Balance, Russie,” as he turned back to their original positions. Russia frowned and didn’t reply.

They engaged again, resetting each time Canada called ‘touché’. At the fifth call, France and Russia bowed a final time before shaking hands. France turned to Canada, and America took his cue to approach, England’s book held carefully at his side.

“What are you doing?” he called to Russia, hesitating a few feet away.

Russia turned back to see him. “Fencing,” he answered, gaze catching on the book in America’s hands. “Do you want to join us?”

“Can I?” America’s heart leapt—he was going to sword fight!

“Have you even fenced before?” France cut in, straightening from his conversation with Canada.

“I learn quickly,” America fired back.

Russia stepped between them. “It will be good to have America practice with us—he is a better matched partner for Canada.”

“I suppose so,” France conceded. “But I do not have another rapier his size, so they will not be able to practice at the same time until we dock.”

“That gives him time to learn the basics.”

“Wait, Canada knows how to fence?” America asked, untangling their French in his head.

“But of course. Canada has been fencing for almost twenty years now; he’s quite good,” France replied, an approving hand coming to rest on Canada’s shoulder. Canada blushed and tried to step behind his father.

America felt an ugly little twist in his stomach. England had never let him do anything relating to fighting, saying that is was his job as America’s empire to protect him. And it only took one broken arm playing soldiers with the village boys for America to conclude independently that playing with his supposed peers would end in him accidentally hurting someone. “I want to learn.”

“Are you certain?” France asked. “I’m not going to be lenient with your training simply because you are Russie’s colony.”

America missed the sharp look Russia flung at the other nation. “I can take whatever training Canada can,” he declared in English.

“Fine. Remember rule one: only French,” France sniffed. America huffed.

“France, let me teach America the basics—” Russia offered, stepping towards the colony.

The older nation waved this off. “Absolutely not. Your understanding of balance is still flawed; you’ll teach him incorrectly.” Russia’s cheeks went pink; he opened his mouth but France continued. “Practice floor drills with Canada; mind your footing. I will instruct America on the basics.”

Russia stood there a moment, before turning to the French colony. France shifted his attention to America. “Shall we?”

America stored his book by the main mast, retrieved the child’s rapier from Canada, who gave him a quiet ‘good luck’, and went to France, standing slightly apart from the group. “Put that down; you won’t need it yet,” France commanded, setting aside his own rapier.

America did so, stomach fluttering. France came to stand beside him and dropped into the starting position. America mimicked him as France described the angle of the feet, how weight should be distributed between the legs, the cant of the shoulders towards one’s opponent, where the free arm went. He tried to make adjustments as France noted them.

“Hold.” France paced a slow, tight circle around him; America tried to ignore how the hair on the back of his neck stood up. France made what felt like dozens of minute corrections: a tug of his shoulders there, lowering the arms like so, France’s hands on his hips to tilt them just a breath the other way.

“That is the most basic stance in fencing. Every movement comes out of and into and back out of that stance. Let the feel of it sink into your muscles; etch the position into your bones.” America’s legs ached. France looked him over once more, nodding his approval. “Relax.”

America straightened with a sigh.

“Now again,” France commanded.

“What?”

“Again.”

They repeated the process for what felt like ages: America attempted the stance, France made adjustments and ordered him to hold, then let him relax only to have him try again a scant minute later. His legs and arms trembled; he grit his teeth and didn’t budge, ignoring the quick shuffled steps of Canada and Russia’s practice.

France ordered him back into position, strolling his keen-eyed circle around America, hands clasped lightly behind him. He stopped back in front—there had been no corrections. America stared through him, brow furrowed. He could feel a bead of sweat trickle down his spine.

“Good.” France smiled. “Relax.”

America groaned, flopping forward to touch his arms to the deck in a stretch as a fierce pride flooded him. When he straightened, France was still smiling.

“Next, movement…”

The step was a quick-tempo shuffle completely unlike walking. France made him freeze when he accidentally crossed his feet, giving his shoulders a light push so America would understand what France meant when he said crossing one’s feet left a person unbalanced. They practiced until the watch whistle signaled dinner; America didn’t miss France’s frown.

Russia and Canada rejoined them. “I have decided that America may join us in future practices,” France announced as the group moved towards the cabin.

Canada clapped in delight and America grinned at him. Russia’s long look at France went unnoticed.

Something resembling a routine slipped into their days: breakfast together, then Canada and France to their lessons while Russia and America retreated to their room, or sat in a shaded patch of deck. There Russia wrote or read, and America created even more elaborate battle plans using his wooden troops, with imaginary terrain that impacted troop movement. Occasionally Russia whittled more bits of wood—he produced a half dozen soldiers painted in pine green uniforms trimmed with red, the Preobrazhensky Guards, he called them. America added them to his battles as front-line infantry. If Russia noticed, he didn’t comment.

They dined together as a group again in the afternoon; America wolfed down his food only to vibrate in his seat while he waited for France to finish. Meals, he said, are not taken only to be rushed. Then France retrieved the fencing equipment and they trooped up to the deck.

When they practiced, France gained a stern edge America never saw on him otherwise. He took the art very seriously, reminding America on more than one occasion that although it was handled as a sport by many, its original intent was to be an elegant and swift way to kill. To ignore that fact was to dishonor the spirit of fencing and ultimately put oneself at risk. So America drilled and even stretched beside the others, attempting always to mimic France’s gestures precisely. He glowed when France noted his approval.

Practice lasted until the watch whistle called them to supper. Afterward, France and Russia would tarry in France’s room to discuss whatever it was adults talked about when children were out of earshot, leaving Canada and America to entertain themselves. Cards, Shakespeare, mock battles were all fair game, as they fought the comforting exhaustion borne of good exercise. Objiwe slept a warm, hollow spot under the desk.

The pattern held almost four weeks until the end of July. By then America knew the basics of footwork and bladework, practicing parries and lunges against the sea breeze while France and Russia, even Canada sometimes, occupied themselves with actually exciting stuff like bouts.

After his fiftieth lunge that afternoon, America turned back to the group and declared, “I’m done practicing! I want a match!”

France took advantage of Russia’s heartbeat of distraction to land another touch and win the bout.

“A match? You only started learning four weeks ago,” France noted, turning his back on Russia’s self-disappointed scowl.

“Exactly! I’ve been doing this for four weeks and I haven’t fought anyone yet,” America pointed out. His French skills had grown exponentially over those same four weeks, as France refused to demonstrate anything if he heard English.

“It’s not enough,” France dismissed, tucking his rapier under his arm to readjust his cravat.

“It is so!” America countered, stamping his foot. “I’m already really good.”

“You think so?” France arched a brow at him.

America felt a blush creep up on his cheeks and answered firmly, “Yes, I do.”

France smiled. “Very well then. We shall have a bout.”

Russia’s head snapped up from fiddling with the grip of his rapier. “No. That is an awful idea.”

France strolled over to one end of their pitch, which Canada had taken to outlining in chalk at the start of each practice. “If America wants a match, Russie, I’ll not deny him,” he replied, flipping his ribboned ponytail over his shoulder. He indicated the opposing side with his rapier; America hurried into position, heart thudding in his chest.

“Call the touches for us?” France asked Russia.

“I refuse.”

“Your choice. Canada?”

Canada glanced once at Russia, standing stiff with a deep frown by the mast, and stepped up to the edge of the rectangle.

“On guard.”

France shifted into a salute, eyes glittering behind his blade; America mirrored him, making an effort to breath properly as they dropped into the opening position. Russia crossed his arms, rapier pressed against his side, eyes flicking between kingdom and colony.

“Ready. Play!”

America burst forward to engage, the swift step-step of his uncrossed feet bringing him to meet France in the middle. France parred the first strike, and the second, and some part of America’s head noted the height and subsequent reach advantage had by the other nation. He pressed forward, strike after strike seeking an opening. Height didn’t matter—France thought he couldn’t fight after four weeks of lessons? They would see about that.

France gave ground, retreating two steps—America felt a surge of victory and lunged, blade snapping out. He only had the briefest second to see the swift flourish of France’s wrist that brought his rapier around America’s-

“ _Touché!_ ” Canada called.

America straightened, frowning as he rubbed the sore spot on his collarbone. France gave him a wordless smile as he back into his starting position. America decided landing the first touch was unimportant; winning the bout was what mattered.

On the sideline, Russia watched them with wary eyes.

America managed to push France back again, focusing his speed into his rapier—no progress, everything was parried with what seemed like no effort. Frustration climbed the back of his neck; he shot a quick glance to France’s face, and caught him staring. The flash of a grin, and France’s blade snaked around lightning-fast to stab into his side and flick away.

America skipped back a step, biting his lip, skin tingling a burning protest. If their weapons weren’t capped, the blow would’ve opened a gash in his side, perfectly spaced between the top of his hip and the bottom of his ribcage, spilling his entrails onto the deck.

“Finished?” France asked, breathing barely ruffled.

“No,” America snapped, and stalked back to his side.

This time when Canada called the start, France advanced just as quickly to the center, and followed his parries with attacks—America managed to fend them off, a fierce grin stealing over his features. Either France wasn’t as good as he thought he was, or America really was that good.

Then France’s blade clipped his wrist and Canada called a point.

“Really! Even for that!” America shouted. But it was fair—with a true blade that would’ve cost him the use of his hand, if not the entire hand.

“Somehow, by miraculous coincidence, you have, despite never fencing with him, picked up Russie’s weak style of parry,” France remarked, mimicking the motion. “It leaves your entire sword arm open, as demonstrated.”

America fumed. “What are you saying?”

France shrugged, turning. “Nothing more than I have. I think we are done here.”

“No! Another bout!” America demanded, stamping his foot.

“Three losses were not enough for you?” France chuckled.

He wouldn’t let them end here, not after the comparison. “I haven’t shown you all I can do yet.”

“I think I know what you’re capable of.” France glanced over him and America felt his skin prickle.

“So you concede defeat then?” he challenged.

France barked a laugh. “I do not concede defeat; I refuse to engage.”

“Isn’t that the same thing? When one person wants to fight and the other refuses, they concede defeat.”

“They are entirely different concepts; read a book on military strategy sometime, would you?” A hint of irritation slipped into France’s voice as he turned back. Russia murmured something to him too quiet for America to hear.

“Fight me or concede defeat.”

France huffed, resuming his position. “You want a final bout? I can give you that. If only so you leave me alone.”

“France…” Russia called; France waved him off, shifting into a salute.

America returned it, pulse racing through his limbs. Last chance. He thought maybe the mood had shifted, but France’s expression hadn’t changed much? Only now his eyes didn’t glitter like they had at the beginning.

France gave America no time to attack; the colony parred quickly, but a second attack came straight on the heels of the first, then another. Fast, the strikes were so _fast_ —America felt the blade graze his side but Canada didn’t call it so he threw out an attack; France shook off the attempted counter like it was water, still pressing America back. The attacks came so tightly spaced that America didn’t have time to think, deflecting them solely on reflex as he took a full step back, proper footing be damned—

The blade snapped across the forearm of his free hand and he shrieked, rapier clattering to the deck as he stumbled back, tripping over his feet to land on the deck, eyes widening as Canada called the point and France lunged—

Russia dove forward, a clash of metal as his rapier deflected France’s blade at the last second; France crashed full force into him and swore.

“What are you doing!” he shouted, recovering his footing.

Russia didn’t move, standing between them like a wall. “That’s enough. You’ve won.”

America’s arm burned; the force of France’s blow had ripped a gash in his sleeve, blood oozing up from the rapidly swelling welt. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. “What was that for!”

France looked down at him around Russia, though made no attempt to pass him. “Your form fell apart; your free arm came forward.” He nodded towards the welt. “You’ll never make that mistake again, just as I learned.”

Russia muttered something low under his breath to France before offering a hand to America. America ignored him, picking himself up off the deck, forcing back tears. Dull shame and embarrassment smoldered in his chest.

“I’m going to my room,” he announced, and thanked god that his voice didn’t waver.

“Go to the sick bay and get your arm wrapped,” France ordered. “We’re less than ten days from shore—it would be stupid for you to get an infection now.”

America glared, and vanished below deck. He did not rejoin the lessons the next day.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ivan Kupala is St John's Day in Russia, and the old pagan holiday for the summer solstice. At this time in history, most people in Europe did not celebrate their actual birthday, but rather their Name Day: the saint's day that corresponded to their Christian name. Traditional Russian activities include bonfire jumping and romantic divination, often involving water or fire of some kind, hunting for a red fern flower ('the flower of fire'), and many other magical traditions.
> 
> By the 1760s, fencing had only become a sport within the last hundred, hundred and fifty years. Before then, the sword arts were still very relevant education for the nobility as the primary means of fighting duels (pistol duels were commonplace by the mid-1700s.)
> 
> Preobrazhensky Guards was a military unit based in Sankt-Peterburg, originally formed by Peter the Great, and considered an elite force at the time.


	14. Come Ashore

America avoided fencing as the final days of the voyage dragged on. Squabbles broke out like cloudbursts as restlessness latched onto everyone, as they dug down to the bottom of their mental and physical supplies. America nudged the meager serving of porridge around his bowl with the tip of his spoon. Without jam or cream or butter, the whole affair was a sorry experiment in just how little flavouring the tongue would accept and still consider a thing food. Breakfast was rapidly approaching that limit.

His fellow colony was also suffering. “Eat, _cher,_ ” France instructed, passing Canada the salt well.

“How can we? This is awful,” America sulked aloud.

France gave him a look. “For someone who has grown up on English food, you have high opinions about your qualifications to judge taste.”

“English food is fine,” America retorted. “This is crap.”

“Mind your language,” France snapped. Beside America, Russia set down his spoon and massaged his temples, eyes shut. France continued, “And welcome to life at sea. As one nears the end of their voyage, one reaches the end of their stores as well.”

“And this is the result?” America ladled a scoop of watery gruel into the air and let it plop back into his bowl. “We eat this until we run out of food entirely? Forced to chew on shoe leather and starve?”

Russia’s shoulders hunched.

“Oh please, as if you even know what hunger pangs feel like,” France quipped.

“I do so,” America fired back. “At Plymouth.” He remembered the first winter like a horrid dream, his gut twisted into knots even when he ate, his stomach bloated yet empty, as all around him his people weakened and fell ill…

“I meant a famine that actually _mattered_ ,” France retorted. “A country-wide tragedy, not a single village’s gross failure to plant with the seasons—”

“We landed too late!” America shouted, standing in his chair. Russia hissed at him to sit, and he ignored it. “It was already too late to plant; winter comes early in Massachusetts!”

Strong hands gripped his waist. “Sit, _down_ ,” Russia growled, jerking America back into his seat; America squirmed out of his grip. “And stop talking about famine,” he shot across the table at France.

“I would’ve thought you of all people would agree with me,” France huffed.

America saw Russia’s hands close into fists. “ _Tu facis illud iterum. Tu cohortarís eum depugnare._ ” The Latin went right over America’s head, but the accusing tone did not.

France barked a short laugh. “ _Precussit primum, quaerens refellere. Proeliari officiose._ ”

Russia scowled and opened his mouth to reply, but the boatswain’s whistle cut through the brewing argument. They froze, France holding up a hand to enforce the silence. “That cannot be to mark the hour…” he mused slowly.

_“Ohé! Terre en vue!”_

France shoved back from the table so hard his chair toppled over, darting to the door.

“What’s going on!” America demanded as Russia also stood quickly. Were they under attack?

Russia’s short reply was simply, “Land.”

America shot out of his seat, squeezing past Canada in the crowded hall. The entire crew tried to swarm the deck, bodies packed together as too many people attempted to take the stairs at once. America butted his shoulders through knees and legs, scrambling onto the deck, ducking through the throng to the railing by France.

A wobbling thread of green and brown rested just above the horizon. All around him, people pointed, cheering and laughing. He glanced up at France; the man’s blue eyes were fixed on that thread like he were staring into the face of salvation itself.

“Just a few hours now,” Russia noted, stepping up behind them. America inched to the side as France half turned, planting a furious kiss on Russia’s lip. The man coloured as France leaned against him, smiling with a contended sigh.

“ _Oui_ , and then I will finally be home, after five years… Five years!” France shouted, lurching upright to brace against the railing. “Five long years away from my blessed homeland, from city and field and wood, from people and monarch, from all that sustains me! But now—” he turned back, stepping past Russia into the small circle forming around them. “We return home—victorious! Triumphant! Tonight we drink and feast our fill, and sleep in gentle arms!” The men cheered, and France’s expression took on a vicious playfulness.

“Who would deny us these comforts? The Prussians? Smashed against the city walls at Berlin!”

France paused, waiting for the cheers to die, grinning as he asked, “The English?”

America bristled as the crowd exploded into jeers, hissing and spitting and cursing.

“Whore-sons—”

“—sheep-fuckers—”

“—should’ve been drowned in the crib—”

America backed up flush against the railing. The crew had never said anything like that to _him_ , and to hear them so easily say it about England— Russia glanced at him and shifted minutely to the left, cutting off his line of sight to France as the man held up his hands. The crowd subsided.

“They certainly tried,” France remarked into the lull. He looked between his men. “Chased us down and brutalized us _around the world!_ But they couldn’t do it, could they? What’s the power of a tiny island nation against the might of the most powerful empire on the Continent? _Nothing!_ ” France shouted over the howls of agreement, “The English forget this, and God willing we shall remind them every time! Praise be to God, to the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit—” Russia crossed himself, as did a large segment of the crew. France took a breath. “Let us pray…”

America stood awkwardly as the crew knelt, removing their hats. He and France and Russia were the only ones standing, France with his head bowed, arms outstretched by his waist.

France intoned, “Lord, Heavenly Father, we returning from the far fields of battle thank you. We came close, so close to drinking bitter dregs from the cup of defeat, crying out to You in our despair. In Your ever merciful love, You sent us our earthly salvation and preserved us against our enemies, granting us victory in Your name and in the name of His Majesty, appointed by Your wisdom to protect and guide the people of France, sheep in the flock of Christ. We praise you and glorify you, and pray using the words Your Son, our Saviour the Lord Jesus Christ, taught us…”

The assembled recited the Our Father. America sneered at France, marveling at the audacity and gall it took to claim divine justice for his victory, for Russia’s involvement. He turned away, watching the coastline creep steadily closer. Behind him, he heard France bless the crew and dismiss them back to their duties. They went away whistling and chatting, snatches of laughter filtering through the crowd. The air was lighter now, but America felt it wrap around him like a cloak, shielding him from the French.

“America?”

He didn’t look, crossing his arms against the railing. “What, Canada.”

Canada hesitated. “Are you okay?”

“No,” America answered bluntly.

Another pause, before Canada started, “I don’t- I don’t think, what Papa said about the English—”

“It doesn’t matter, I don’t care,” America cut him off gruffly.

Canada bit his lower lip and looked back to the approaching coast; he didn’t say anything further. A tiny sense of unfairness twined around America’s heart, and he shoved off the railing and pushed his way through the crowd back below deck.

—

Russia found America curled up in a tight ball in the hammock. The ball inched tighter as Russia shut the door behind him.

“Do you have all of your things gathered?” he asked levelly. He went to the desk and began organizing his papers, considering the ink well for a moment before he dumped the contents out the porthole. “America?” he prompted, carrying the desk contents to his trunk.

America stared resolutely at the wall. Russia went to America’s clothing trunk—the colony’s eyes shifted to him—and selected what passed for America’s nicest outfit, returning to stand by the hammock, laying the clothes out between them.

“Please change into this before we disembark,” he said. “We’re landing in La Harve; from there, we’ll take a barge up La Seine to Paris, and a carriage from Paris to Versailles—”

“I don’t want to,” America bit out. His voice sounded strained.

Russia paused, then replied, “I know.” America shot him a glare, which rolled off faster than Russia expected. He continued, “We will stay at Versailles maybe a month at most, before we return to La Harve and sail to Sankt-Peterburg.”

“I don’t want to-” America’s voice broke; he winched his knees tighter to his chest.

Russia swallowed. “I know—”

“But you don’t care,” the child fired back.

“It’s not a matter of caring,” Russia answered with a quick shake of his head. “Sometimes things happen whether we care for them or not.”

“Well I don’t care for any of it,” he mumbled.

“I know.” Russia went to his own trunk to retrieve his uniform. He hadn’t worn it since they boarded the ship; as he slid his arms in, he blinked, disorientated, as the lingering scent of Boston wafted up. He glanced at America, hesitated, then left.

—

La Harve wasn’t much different from any other port America had ever been to—swarming with people, just as noisy as the market only harder to understand with the predominance of French, voices raised in a cacophony of tongues. They had all flocked to the docks as the fleet glided into the harbour, and America’s stomach churned as they cheered victory for their returning soldiers.

They followed France down the gangplank. The minute he was on solid ground he staggered, swooning, and the masses surged forward to catch him. He recovered his footing almost immediately, laughing breathlessly; he kissed one of the woman who help support him and she blushed, giggling. America looked away, embarrassed for both of them.

Russia kept a hand firmly on his shoulder and steered him through the throng, which only barely parted for their little group. America saw people straining to touch France, his arm, his shoulder, the hem of his coat, a cuff, but none actually barred their path. Canada clung to the tails of France’s coat. When he stumbled over a loose bit of brick in the road, France whirled and scooped him into his arms. America caught a glimpse of France’s face as he murmured something into Canada’s ear over the roar of the crowd, eyes half-lidded, a delirious smile tilting his lips. He glanced up at Russia, but thankfully the taller nation seemed unfazed by their landing, his features drawn and alert.

They made it to a smaller dock; two soldiers America hadn’t noticed following them turned to keep the crowd at bay some ten feet from them. Objiwe headbutted his way past them. France set Canada down and collapsed onto a crate in a nearby stack; Canada immediately scrambled into his lap.

“Papa, are you okay?” he asked, gentle hands on France’s cheeks.

France gave a faint laugh, nuzzling into a hand. Russia’s hand twitched a fraction tighter on America’s shoulder, and he twisted out from under his grip with a scowl. Russia glanced at him but returned his focus to France.

The kingdom reached up and closed a hand around Canada’s, lowering it. “ _Oui, mon petit ange_ , I am okay. I am wonderful,” he insisted.

“Then why’s your hand trembling?” America demanded. “It’s like you got off the ship and bloody lost your mind.”

France wagged a finger at him, still smiling. “No English here, _Amérique_ ; don’t you dare.”

America opened his mouth to reply and was cut off by a beggarwoman who managed to duck under the guards, falling to her knees inside their little space. A guard turned to grab her, but France waved them off. He set Canada next to him on the crate and let them woman approach. She remained on her knees at his feet, sobbing; France held her hand and hushed her, expression beatific. Canada caught America’s eye over the woman’s head, a silently panicked ‘I don’t know what’s going on’. America shrugged in equal bafflement, nearly gaping outright when France kissed the woman’s head and let her depart. She went away, wiping her tears and looking decidedly less distressed.

As dock hands transported their things from ship to barque, France allowed a tiny trickle of people passed the guards and received all of them much the same way he did the beggarwoman. They were of from all walks of life, from the poorest souls to well-off merchants; some came only quickly, dropping to their knees to kiss the hem of his coat before they hurried off, while others lingered, murmuring too low for America to hear what they were saying.

He edged back next to Russia. “What is going on?” he demanded in a loud whisper.

Russia tilted his head towards America but didn’t look away from the kingdom. “France has come home,” he said, voice low. “It happens to all Nations.”

“What, losing your mind?” America followed his gaze. France looked dazed, if simplistically happy; he made the Sign of the Cross over the bowed head of a man with a twisted hand.

Russia shrugged. “It affects all of us differently. It’ll fade in a little bit.”

“Are you going to going temporarily crazy too then? When you get to Sankt-Peterburg?” America asked, eying him.

Russia chuckled, gaze drifting out over the crowds of people. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

America frowned. That was not reassuring. The people milling about by the guards had calmed; if he had to guess, there looked to be less of them. “Do they know? Who France is?”

Russia’s shoulders rose and dropped again. “Who can say? Maybe they know what he is; maybe they’ve heard that the Duke de Versailles docked here. It almost doesn’t matter.” He paused. “But… sometimes people seem to realize, during moments of, national excitement. Or incredible stress.”

America reflected on this a moment. The militia man who stared into his eyes as he lay dying on the field, how the pain clouding his face had lifted for a moment in what America knew was pure understanding, followed by relief.

He nodded to himself. Russia studied his face for a moment before turning to check on the barque and inquire about provisions from a resting poleman.

—

Russia helped France onto the barque once they were ready to disembark. After four months at sea, being back on the water was more familiar to his legs than land. France sank onto a wide bench under an awning, stretching out over the length of it. Russia hovered over him.

“How are you doing?” Behind him, he could hear Canada and America conferring in low tones about France’s reaction.

The kingdom gave him a small, exhausted smile. “I forget,” he sighed. “I forget— oh, how impossible to describe...” The smile twitched towards rueful before settling back into unshadowed contentment. “My people are so beautiful, all of them. I love them, I love all of them, I would do anything for them…”

Russia gave France’s hand a gentle squeeze, listening to him murmur about his people and his land for a few moments more before moving away so the Nation had a chance to recover. He watched the port city drift by as the polemen navigated their barque up the river. It was a relatively shallow craft with no mast, and all their possessions were lashed down in a wide, low stack near the stern so the poleman charged with determining the actual direction of the craft could see over it. The other four polemen were crouched farther up near the bow; they had managed to catch the tidal current going up La Seine, so the extra man power wouldn’t be needed for a time yet.

“Monsieur Russie?”

Canada stood at hand, fingers worrying the buttons of his waistcoat. “Is, Papa going to be okay?”

Russia nodded. “Yes. He is resting now.”

Relief lit his face and he scampered back to America. Russia watched them. For as much as America didn’t want to be here, he seemed just as excited as Canada to be off the ship and going to new places. Objiwe sat on the stack of their trunks as the colonies raced up the length of the barge and back. When the poleman began to sing a shanty, America took up the tune as well, to the delight of the men.

As they went, Russia saw black scorch marks on stone walls, a ruined building in half repair… From the English raid at the start of the war, he surmised, the one that guaranteed that the war would not be fought on English soil and delayed France’s deployment to the New World.

America clambered up the small hill of their trunks, grinning as he declared himself king of the small craft. Russia glanced at a passing scorch mark, and decided not to mention it.

France had recovered sufficiently enough to sit upright by the time they lost the main benefit of the tidal surge. The current slowed, then reversed, prompting the polemen to take up their positions. Canada came to France’s lap, letting France thread his fingers through Canada’s slight curls in a facsimile of brushing. Russia glanced skyward and decided it was a reasonable time for lunch; already without the constant reminder of the watch whistles, he’d lost the specific sense of hours.

The basket he had sent for while they waited for the barque to be loaded did not disappoint. Two loaves of bread, a pat of soft butter, three sausages, a few hard boiled eggs, several slices of different cheeses, dried figs from he didn’t even know where—and nestled in the cloth napkins that would serve as their plates were four glasses with which to drink the accompanying bottles of wine and champagne.

“Ohh, well done, Russie,” France murmured, peering around Canada as Russia listed off their picnic.

Russia hid his smile and called America over from where the colony was laid flat out on the deck, trailing a stick in the water. When he leapt up, he revealed the front of his waistcoat to be covered in dust. Russia grabbed his arm before he could dart away and brushed him off as best as possible, which earned an indignant sputtering from America. Canada giggled behind his hands.

The addition of food made the time past faster. The colonies gorged themselves on the fresh fare, relishing the change from gruel and ale-laden porridge. Russia and France managed a more refined pace, but even France closed his eyes and hummed in delight at his first slice of bread and butter.

“It could be from the worst baker in all of La Harve—after four months at sea, it’s all heaven-sent,” he sighed with a smile.

They polished off the bottle of wine in short order, which left both America and Canada groaning with fullness, propped up against the trunks to watch the river bank. France and Russia split the champagne themselves; Russia came to sit next to France, letting the other sag against him and pet his knee absently. The sense that he ought to make conversation rose up, and Russia set it to drift away on the current.

They passed most of the remaining river journey that way, in comfortable silence, watching the children entertain themselves as only children can. France interrupted them only once to chide them for trying to toss the remaining bread to the ducks, explaining that then they’d be followed by everything from ducks to swans, which would fun only until they ran out of bread. America scowled and dropped the chunk of bread back into the basket.

The settlements on the river bank gradually built themselves up, until some of the buildings towered up three stories or more, and the river grew more congested with barques and barges and ferries transporting everything from crates of food to livestock to people. They passed under a bridge and France straightened, declaring them to be in Paris now.

They docked shortly after and a poleman secured a carriage for them, working with the footman to transfer their trunks. A small crowd gathered by the narrow dock while they waited, watching them and gossiping. America questioned Canada about this and that, and Russia caught the ripple that passed through the onlookers as they determined America to be English. America must’ve caught one of the whispers, because he suddenly glanced at the crowd, brow knitted in caution, and edged back toward the rest of the group.

Once the carriage was loaded, they climbed in and arranged themselves: France and Canada facing the direction of travel, and Russia and America seated across from them, empires and colonies parallel with their own. Objiwe curled up on the carriage floor, muzzle by Canada’s polished shoes. America wedged himself as close to the window as possible and did his damnedest to ignore everyone. Russia recognized the shift to sulking and hoped it wouldn’t last.

As they rolled out of the city proper and began to pass through farm lands, France sighed, “Mon Dieu, I cannot wait to return to the palace. After years away—I’ll have to have entirely new clothes made up to adjust to the shifts in fashion.”

Canada looked up at him. “Is the palace very beautiful, Papa?”

“The most beautiful place in the entire world, _mon peitit_ , filled with the most beautiful people,” France said with a smile as he pet Canada’s wavy hair. “A world of rich carpets and marble pillars, gilt molding and clear glass windows; rustling silk dresses and painted lips; daintily gloved hands and crisp heeled shoes. Where one can dance into the depths of night, wear holes into those fine shoes, sip champagne from crystal flutes and dine on delicacies from golden plates. For the new personage fresh to Court, one thinks they resided on earth no longer.”

America made a soft choking sound. Russia glanced over at him; America remained staring out the window.

Canada’s eyes were round. “Will we live in the palace?”

“Yes and no. We will live in my château. You must understand that Versailles is not simply the palace,” France explained. “Versailles is the palace itself but also all the surrounding gardens and châteaus, the fountains and menagerie, the observatory—when we say the Court, we mean all of that. We mean Versailles. We mean the blessing to dwell within the same grounds as the magnificent grace of Their Majesties. People will plead with you in awe, tell us of your time at Court, for to those people, the Court might as well be Heaven—utterly pure, beyond imaginable splendor, and the home of a special, privileged few. Heh, I suppose in that way, it is easier for a man to come to reside in Heaven than at Versailles!”

“Dying is a good deal more simple for most people than impressing the Court,” Russia commented. He managed not to snicker when France gave him a look.

“Which then is worthy of greater praise?” France asked rhetorically, looping a stray lock of hair over his ear. “The task which anyone can accomplish, or the accomplishment achieved by so few?”

“Did you really just say that Versailles is better than Heaven?” America turned towards them, disgust splashed across his face. The English words, which had been miostly absent for the last four weeks or so of the sea voyage, sounded sharp and biting on his tongue. “Can you be more sacrilegious?”

“I’m sure I could be if I tried,” France replied flippantly.

Russia gave the other nation a hard stare. “We are nearing the end of our voyage. Let it be a peaceful one.”

“You’re going to hell,” America told France. Russia sighed, burying his face in his hands.

France shrugged, unconcerned. “Perhaps I will see you there then.”

“I’m not going to hell!” the colony shouted.

“Stop yelling,” Russia snapped, feeling his nerves fray. His fingers curled into the hem of his frock coat’s skirt. “France, for the love of God, stop answering him.”

“I’m not sure I can,” France answered, hand pressed over his chest. “After all, if I’m going to hell, I don’t think God’s love is foremost in my mind.”

“Which is why you’re going to hell,” America added, arms crossed. At their feet, Objiwe stirred, observing them with blinking eyes. Canada silently reached down to pet him.

This was worse than the ship; at least on the ship they had the option of more than one room. “Why are you so upset?” Russia demanded, frowning at his colony.

America’s gaze swiveled to him, brow knitted in confusion. “Is that a real question? France is being an arse!” France crowed at the word, chuckling at the meager attempt to swear.

“He was like that all on the ship,” Russia dismissed, determined to drag the conversation back into a language he could understand. “Why now does it make you so upset?”

America glared. “Because now were in his stupid country, going to his stupid palace, to see his stupid king and queen!”

“Don’t you insult Their Majesties, child,” France warned sharply, sitting forward in his seat. Russia held up a hand to ward him off; beside him, America continued.

“Why not? They’re not my king and queen,” America pronounced.

“For the same reason you would be livid if I insulted yours,” France stated. A fair point.

America slumped back in his seat defiantly. “Given the weight behind your words, I’m certain it wouldn’t count for anything.”

Russia marveled at the colony as France hummed, low and dark. Where had America learned such retorts?

France straightened, chin up as he settled back in his seat. “This is a waste of my time,” he declared, sniffing.

“Yeah, just like your lady knight was in that war,” America grumbled.

France lunged across the small space; Russia dove forward to catch France in the chest and throw him back into his seat, Obijwe snarling as France’s heel clipped his head. Russia ignore them both, whirling to face America.

“America, _shut your mouth_ ,” he snarled. “You are as much to blame for this bickering as France, only your blows are arguably lower. You keep damning people to hell and professing God’s love, but I have seen thus far little of Christ’s love for your fellow Christian.”

America stared, wide-eyed. He had shrank into the corner of the seat, as far back as the tiny space would allow; he was trembling faintly, Russia realized. Bile rose in his throat and he sat back, abruptly aware of Canada’s frightened gaze as well. Even France was quiet. Fuck. But he couldn’t apologize; America would just disregard the whole thing then.

Said colony slowly uncurled from his corner. “I’m to blame?” he whispered, once more switching to English. Russia glanced back to him, and saw blazing blue eyes. America continued, voice rising, “I’m to blame? You keep me cooped up on a ship with someone I hate for four months, and I’m to blame. Someone who hates me in equal measure, but I’m to blame. You bring me among people who also hate me—” America was still trembling, but now it wasn’t from fear. “You, drug me, so you can kidnap me away from my people, away from my land, my home, everything I’ve ever known—and I’m the one to blame for the bickering!” He was shrieking now, hands balled into fists. “You want to know why I’m upset! Because you’re a monster and a heathen and I’m never- going to see- my father- again—” he broke off with a sob.

Russia couldn’t look away. America sat with his head bowed, trying and failing to stifle the noise, each gasp wracking his body, fists pressed again his thighs. France was staring; Canada had slid to the carriage floor to bury his face in Objiwe’s fur, arms wrapped around his neck.

Russia’s breathing tasted wrong, too shallow and thin. He tried to gulp down a breath, but the air in the carriage was suffocatingly warm. He swallowed, stomach heaving, as each sob gouged a bloody gash in his gut-

“Stop the carriage,” he choked out.

France blinked. “Pardon—?”

Not fast enough—Russia lurched forward, clutching the handle and wrenching the door open to leap down onto the dusty road; he heard France shout. He stumbled, momentum carrying him to the edge of a wheat field where he crashed onto his hands and knees, emptying his stomach into the weeds. He coughed, retched again, tears blurring his vision; the acrid scent burned his nose and he pushed away, curling his forehead to the earth on a clean patch of green and tried to suck down fresh, cool air. He tucked his hands by his head, fingers threaded into the grass, worming into the soil beneath; the earth smelt wrong here, too dry and lifeless.

_Get up, boy._

His shoulders hunched around a shudder; he squeezed his eyes shut. Not real; not happening. It was 1767 in the year of Our Lord—

_I- want— **Kiev!** I want Batushka!_

Her Majesty Elizaveta, Empress and Autocrat of all the Russias, was on the throne—

_Kiev is dead._

His capital was Sankt-Peterburg; it hadn’t even been built back then—

_Pity—I bet it would’ve burned beautifully._

He whimpered, forcing his eyes open to fix on the green beyond his nose rather than the nomad looming behind his eyelids.

“Russie-”

A hand alighted on his shoulder and he swung blindly, clipping France in the knee. He yelped; Russia felt a heady cocktail of guilt and fear swamp his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, please- don’t be angry—” he stuttered.

France crouched by him, avoiding the remains of breakfast. “Shhh, Russie. You’re okay. You’re not speaking French; I can’t understand you.”

Russia cringed as he realized which language his tongue had reflexively chosen. “I’m sorry,” he repeated in French. “I—”

France hushed him again, slowly reaching out to brush the bangs out of his eyes; Russia mostly hid the flinch. “Come here,” France commanded gently, arms open.

Russia obeyed, shifting into France’s embrace; he didn’t fit properly, there was no one in the world big enough to hold him. He wished he was as small as he felt. His nose dipped below the lip of his scarf as France rested a hand on his hair, thumbing through the strands. “Everything’s okay,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry.”

France shook his head slightly. “No more of that. _Oui?_ ” Russia nodded mutely.

They remained like that, silent, listening to heartbeats and steady breaths, for what felt like an hour. Russia was certain it couldn’t have been that long. Once the tremors had died down to barely perceptible, France shifted and Russia drew back. He took the offered hand and climbed to his feet.

The carriage had stopped a short distance up the road. As they approached, Russia saw America and Canada peering out the windows, and flushed scarlet. The footman held the door for them, impassive as ever, and France entered first. Once they sat, the carriage shuddered into motion once more.

Canada broke the heavy silence with the softest, “What happened?”

“Russie had a fit,” France answered simply, as if this were a most natural, normal thing for people to experience. Russia felt America’s eyes boring into him as he stared out the window; at least the colony wasn’t sobbing any more. He probably though Russia was a monster and a lunatic now.

Russia felt like both.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russia and France's Latin exchange:
> 
> Tu facis illud iterum. Tu cohortarís eum depugnare.-- You did it again. You encourage him to fight.
> 
> Precussit primum, quaerens refellere. Proeliari officiose.-- He struck first, seeking to quarrel. I obligingly engaged.


	15. Last to Know

France’s château was actually a miniature palace unto itself, Russia remembered. An exercise in how to make a cube attractive, the Petit Trianon seemed caught between the familiar Rococo and the new ‘Neoclassical’ styles. Each facade was different—the lack of symmetry irked Russia. Part of the château was still under construction—Elizaveta would be delighted to hear that her habit of living in nearly finished palaces was also shared by the French.

He watched a small team of servants haul their trunks off the carriage and into the waiting rooms. There was a pervading scent of red wine in one of the drawing rooms downstairs still, lingering from the previous inhabitants’ luncheon. France explained earlier while they waited that space was very much at a premium, and it wouldn’t do for an entire château to remain empty for the length of his time away. Russia wondered who they had evicted with their arrival—some ranked civilian or noble family. But no, the château had been built for a mistress now three years dead, a favourite of King Louis XV. France was certain that he’d have to move elsewhere once the next mistress was found.

They had a discussion about where they would stay, France and him, while they were still on the ship. If Versailles was anything like what Russia remembered from his last visit at the turn of the century—and it would be, because that’s generally how monarchies were—then the actual palace of Versailles would afford them almost no privacy, with rooms bisected by a gilt railing to separate at least physically the touring, goggling populace that roamed Versailles for entertainment, and the rank-and-file nobility who actually lived and sometimes did work there. With his height and looks, Russia would be a source of fascination to them, and he couldn’t stomach being put on display. Not again.

America appeared on the landing, having completed his cursory exploration of the château. “I want the room overlooking the greenhouses,” he declared, eyeing the growing stack of luggage in the hall. France had already claimed the room at the end of the hall, with Canada’s room directly next to him.

Russia shook his head. America frowned, which morphed into a half sneer as he repeated his statement in French. The use of English had to stop. America could already speak a moderate amount of French; the next step was to master the language. Quickly.

“That will be arranged,” he answered. He wondered when he should broach the topic of Russian. He liked French; it was a beautiful language, but only the educated nobility spoke it in Pieter.

“Where is your room?” America asked.

“There.” Russia nodded his chin at it. “And Canada’s, and France’s.” The hallway divided them: France’s empire on one side, his own on the other. He stepped aside as the servants began sorting luggage into the rooms.

“Settling in?”

America looked momentarily trapped as France came up the stairs behind him; he flattened himself to the wall equidistant between the two nations, out of the servants’ way.

Russia nodded to him. “I will be glad to rest.”

France passed America as he came over. Information gathered, the colony slipped back down the stairs. Russia decided he could trust the child to stay within shouting distance.

“I was hoping you would come with me and perhaps call on His Majesty for dinner,” France suggested.

Russia stared. They had barely arrived, and while Russia did need to eat, the thought of appearing before the French monarch sounded exhausting. He would have to be on his best behaviour, perfect manners and diplomatic replies, ignoring the fascinated glances and polite smiles sent his way whenever he opened his mouth. “No, France. Not tonight.”

Too blunt. France’s hopeful look was replaced by a faint frown. “Russie. His Majesty is eager to dine with you, in celebration of our victories.” His tone made it clear that he expected only one correct answer.

Russia hesitated, lowering his voice. “France, don’t make me do this tonight. I will happily dine with His Majesty tomorrow,” he added quickly, watching the frown deepen. “We can stay up to the early hours of the morning if His Majesty so desires; I would enjoy nothing more. But please, not tonight. I- I don’t want to embarrass you.” Because that was the real concern here, wasn’t it? France wanted him to play nice in court, but Russia wasn’t convinced he could do it so abruptly, with no time to prepare himself. Also he was fairly certain the French King didn’t like him. Any faux pas of Russia’s would reflect on his entire court, and also on France, and he just— “Not tonight,” he repeated. Not after the carriage ride.

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, you know,” France replied. He shifted a step closer; Russia felt a tingle slip down his arms. “You’ve come such a very long way since 1701. And I know you can perform well under pressure.”

“I don’t _want_ to perform under pressure.” He sounded like a spoiled prince wishing to skip his lessons. His ears went pink.

“You’ll do fine,” France reassured him, laying a hand on his arm. Russia repressed the sudden urge to step away. “Beside, life is never so gracious as to allow us the luxury of choosing these things. Performance under pressure is inevitable; best to practice when there aren’t lives at stake.”

Russia felt himself caving. He grasped for a last defense. “But, America does not have any clothes suitable for court—”

“Oh this is not an invitation for America,” France said, matter-of-fact. “He and Canada may go play with His Highness. And I will send for the tailor tomorrow.”

He couldn’t make eye contact. “France…”

“Grand Duke Braginsky?”

They looked to the end of the hall. A young nobleman stood there; worry creased his forehead, aging him more years than his due. Russia thought he might know him—there was a familiarity in his youthful, almost feminine face.

Russia matched the man’s short bow. “Yes?”

“Please forgive my interruption; I came as soon as I heard of your return. I am Prince Sergei Alexandrovich Menshikov, son of—”

“Alexandr Alexandrovich Menshikov,” Russia realized. He remembered now. The last he had seen Sergei, the prince had been just shy of ten, the grandson of a once powerful prince who had controlled Peter’s wife Empress Catherine after the tsar’s death. The family had been banished to Siberia in 1725, but Empress Anna allowed them to return in 1731. They as a family had been loyal ever since, particularly to Elizaveta, though Sergei had been born late enough to know only the splendor of the capital.

“ _Da-s_. May I have audience, sir? I bear news of grave importance from Sankt-Peterburg.” He looked almost apologetic as he spoke.

Russia felt France give his arm an encouraging squeeze. “I will see you later,” he remarked, vanishing into his room down the hall. The pit of worry in Russia’s stomach yawned wider.

“Yes, Your Highness; let us walk. I’ve not heard from _Pieter_ in months,” he answered, pushing aside thoughts of the evening.

Russia asked after the prince’s family as they headed towards the gardens, made the appropriate sounds of approval or sympathy at the information shared. When they reached the gardens, he shifted into Russian—his tongue ached with familiar relief. “You have grave news?”

“Yes, unfortunately. I am sorry to be the one to deliver this news—” Russia’s gut lurched, a half second before Menshikov said aloud, “Her Majesty Elizaveta Petrovna, Empress and Autocrat of All the Russias, stepped into eternity on the thirtieth of April.”

Russia stared at him dumbly. Then he forced his mouth to work, intoning, “The Tsarina is dead. Long live the Tsarina.” The thirtieth of April. They had left Boston by then—he tried to remember what that day was like, tried to pinpoint the moment when it had happened. He must’ve felt it, the sundering in his heart when a tsar or tsarina died. There were so many times on the ship when frustration and anxiety had squeezed his chest in their grip. Could he have missed it?

Menshikov reached into his frockcoat and drew out a letter, saying as he did, “My father dispatched me here with this, to give to Your Imperial Highness upon arrival.” He offered it expectantly.

Russia took the missive gingerly. The seal’s monogram was indeed that of Alexandr Alexandrovich, untampered. He should excuse himself, read the letter in his room, alone, where he could have whatever reaction he needed to have without on-lookers.

He broke the seal and read:

_I am sending at once my son Prince Sergei to bear this letter to Your Imperial Highness, that you might learn of what has transpired in Pieter in your absence, from a trustworthy source rather the rumours and hearsay that are no doubt even now swirling amongst the courts of Europe. My mind is in a state of ferment—I pray you forgive me, sir, should my frantic state be thus reflected in my words, when I mean to give you a clear account of the events of Her Majesty’s passing and the ascension of Her Majesty’s heir, now-Emperor Peter III, to the imperial throne of all the Russias._

Russia stopped, bowing his head to paper for a moment, taking a steadying breath before he continued, eyes flying over the words. Lizochka was dead, having grown weaker and weaker at her refusal to take medication for her dizzy spells. She lied in state for six weeks before her burial at Peter and Paul Cathedral. Her heir, Peter III, had taken the throne without any trouble, and had— Russia blinked, and reread the section thrice. Peter III had issued imperial proclamations returning to the Kingdom of Prussia all territories seized by and surrendered to the Russian Empire in the 1762 Treaty of Berlin, and revoked the article of that same treaty which reduced the rank of Fredrick II to that of a Prince-Elect, restoring him to the rank of king. Peter further declared Russia to be an ally of Prussia, and renounced the previous alliance with Austria—

Russia stopped reading, looking up at the prince in disbelief. “Is he out of his mind? He’s undoing everything. Everything I’ve fought for these last twelve years—”

“He’s also reforming the army, sir” Menshikov said. He glanced at the surrounding garden; the other aristocrats out for a stroll in the cooling evening were still out of earshot. “Altering drills, introducing new strategies. Prussian strategies. He’s freed the noblemen from compulsory service to the State. And there’s a new uniform—Prussian blue.”

Did that explain the craving for order? Or had he always been like that? “Does he want the men to riot?”

“Even if they did, His Majesty wouldn’t hear of it until it was too late—the secret police are abolished,” Menshikov noted darkly.

Russia shook his head slowly. “What is he doing? How could he possibly— after Bulavin—”

Menshikov spat reflexively at the mention of the man—he must have learned that from his father, or perhaps grandfather. “No one knows what His Majesty is thinking. Some believe His Majesty is planning a war with Denmark—as Duke of Holstein-Gottorp, he wants to recover Schleswig. That may be a reason for the alliance with Prussia.”

Which made some sense in that regard—the returning Prussian territory could be seen as an expensive bribe for assistance. More the fool Peter if he thought allying with Fredrick could excuse alienating his _own_ army. “That seems more subtle than his past actions would lead me to believe him capable.”

“So say His Majesty’s supporters.”

“He has supporters?” Russia blurted. What fool would ally with him after such proclamations?

Menshikov nodded. “Some of the men at court are grateful to be relieved of mandatory service.”

Of course. Personal gain at the expense of the well-being of the country. Lovely.

“There are rumours,” the prince continued slowly, “that His Majesty’s proclamation is only the beginning. There are those who believe His Majesty would make Russia a vassal state under Fredrick II, so obsessive is His Majesty’s admiration of the man.”

Russia shuddered. “He can’t be that stupid— pardon,” he added quickly. He was setting a bad example; speaking ill of his tsar, no matter his personal feelings, encouraged others to do the same. He would not be the one responsible for fanning discontent and destabilizing the monarchy. Lord knew Peter didn’t seem to need the help.

He needed more information. “Has His Majesty replaced Count Chernyshov for the position of Ambassador to France?”

“ _Nyet-s_ , not yet.”

Russia nodded. They would need to speak. “Thank you, Your Highness. Are you to stay in Versailles yet?”

“My father asked that I remain here for a time, until things in the court have settled.”

Wise man. He learned from his childhood—if there was risk of banishment, he would deploy at least a part of his family abroad, to maintain some autonomy and good fortune even in the worst scenario. Versailles was not the worst place for a voluntary self-banishment. Russia paused, properly looking at the young prince. His shoulders were tense, but his eyes had a light to them that did not speak of fear. “Have you been at court long in _Pieter_ , sir?”

Menshikov gave a little shrug. “Since I was eighteen. I’m in the civil service.”

So this was the young man’s first major imperial intrigue, an entirely new level above the usual machinations of marriage arrangements and who was invited to the tsarina’s private balls. Russia nodded. “I hope Your Highness finds it agreeable. God only knows I don’t always.” His fingers twitched around the letter.

Menshikov gave another small bow. “Thank you, Your Imperial Highness.”

They parted ways, Russia promising to call on the prince for tea later in the week. He took a long route through the gardens as the last light of gloaming faded, past couples seated on benches trying to be discreet. Elizaveta was dead. Peter was on the throne. There was a _Prussian_ on his throne. Peter mocked the Russian way of life; he openly scorned the Church. Even though he came to _Pieter_ as a child, he had never come to love his new land, the land he was destined to rule. The man was only 39; how many years of his rule would Russia endure?

And this business of allying with Prussia—had Peter ever _seen_ the two nations in the same room? To force an alliance a meager five years after Russia had captured Berlin—he had bayoneted Prussia on the steps of his castle, for God’s sake! He had been protecting Fredrick; Russia had the distinct impression that Fredrick hadn’t wanted protection, that the king would’ve preferred dying in defense of his capital rather than capture by combined Russian-Austrian forces.

But that was past. Fredrick had survived; killing him after capture was absolutely out of the question, and now Peter had restored him to full power... Poland wouldn’t be happy about that. Russia wouldn’t be surprised if he returned to _Pieter_ to find a stack of angry letters on his writing desk. Considering Poland raised the question of whether Peter would replace the Polish king with one of his own allies. Did Peter _have_ allies in the Polish court? Damn it, he needed more information. He was detached here, hundreds of miles from where he desperately needed to be. He had told France they would stay a month, the longest Russia could safely manage while ensuring they could reach _Pieter_ before the gulf froze. But now that was out of the question. They’d stay long enough to resupply, and that was all.

France flew down the stairs the moment a servant announced Russia’s return, the tails of his frockcoat flaring. “Russie, if we are going to dine with His Majesty we need to leave right now—” He stopped, frowning. “What happened?”

Right. Russia tried to pull himself to the present, untangling his thoughts from the what ifs and next steps. “I—” his voice died. He blinked in surprise, swallowing, and tried again, “Her Majesty Elizaveta is dead.”

France’s mouth opened. “Oh Russie, I am so sorry.” He came up next to him, again laying a hand on Russia’s arm, lighter this time. “When?”

“Thirtieth of April,” Russia replied. He wanted to curl up, abruptly, tuck his head to his knees and let France hold him. He didn’t move.

“Ah- we were already at sea then.”

Russia nodded. “Yes. Impossible to get news. I, don’t know if I noticed,” he finished, voice small.

France tsked. “I am sure you noticed, Russie. We always notice these things.”

Another nod, and he heard himself saying, “I’m not going to dine with His Majesty tonight—”

“Of course not; that would be too much,” France agreed. Relief broke in Russia’s chest. “I however, am not excused. I will returned immediately after, I swear.” He stood on his toes briefly to leave a kiss on Russia’s cheek.

Russia tried to push aside the disappointment that opened under his ribs as France left. He was being childish—France had his own monarchs to attend. He turned, and stopped.

America stood at the top of the stairs, watching warily. “What happened?”

Russia almost didn’t answer, but this matter to the colony now as well. “Our Empress is dead.” How many times would the words leave his lips? He supposed that once France reached dinner, he wouldn’t have to explain to others—the news would spread through the entire court. But they already knew, didn’t they. They probably learned weeks ago, while he was still out at sea and Elizaveta settled into the damp mother earth, her soul away in Heaven. He was the last to know.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” America replied, voice flat. He didn’t care at all; hell, he might even be secretly pleased to see misfortune befall his captor. Russia went up the steps, heart hardened against how the child drew back. He couldn’t do this right now. Had France even arranged anything for the colonies? “Tonight you have dinner with Canada, in his room,” Russia informed him. “Afterward you are to return to your own room for the night.”

Questions hovered behind America’s eyes; he nodded, and moved to knock on Canada’s door. Russia retreated to his own.

He lit a candle, sent the servant for wine, and rifled through his papers, building a stack of letters addressed to Elizaveta. His eyes caught on one where he mistakenly wrote ‘Emperor’, the title neatly crossed out with a thin black slash and a note commenting how funny. The date was mid-June. He had known after all.

The servant returned with a bottle of wine and a glass; Russia sent him away for more. He poured himself a glass, downed it, poured another, and sat at the desk. One by one he fed the letters to the candle, flames licking at his fingers, and felt tears stream down his cheeks.

—

He heard the door click open much later and stirred, lifting his head from the writing desk. “ _Kto tam?_ ”

Soft hands landed on his shoulders; Russia jerked, twisting to look as France hastily took a step back. “My apologies,” he said, brow knitting together in sympathy as he looked over the arctic empire. “Oh Russie…”

Russia faced forward in his chair, face bowed. Were his eyes bloodshot? “Sorry,” he croaked. His tongue felt heavy, too heavy to speak.

When France returned his hands to Russia’s shoulders, Russia didn’t pull away. After a moment, France asked, “Letters?”

Russia nodded. “Don’t want Peter t’ read them,” he mumbled. They weren’t for his eyes, spoiled nephew who hated his adoptive mother and nation. The jokes and secret knowing between Lizochka and Russia died with her. What did he owe the new Emperor? He hadn’t been at Peter’s coronation, he realized. The spark that would pass between them, the current that bound ruler and ruled—it hadn’t happened yet. Once he swore his oath to Peter, would he suddenly adore Prussia? He shuddered.

France bent down and hugged him, arms wrapping across Russia’s broad chest. Russia tilted his head back slightly, resting it against France’s shoulder. Unspoken understanding hovered in the air. Even if… even if France’s sympathy was born of a desire to reaffirm his allegiance with Russia despite Peter’s proclamation—France probably knew all about that now, heard all the rumours at dinner. Russia would have to ask, knowing he wasn’t likely to get an accurate report.

But even if France’s sympathy carried a motive, the man still knew what the loss of a monarch was like. Monarchs— they lived just long enough to truly enmesh themselves in one’s heart, before time and death stole them, snatching them away like a burst of musket fire or slowly tugging them loose from life…

“Like snow figures,” he mumbled.

France’s head tilted. “What was that?” he murmured, quiet by Russia’s ear.

“Snow figures,” he slurred a touch louder. “You build them up strong and splendid and beautiful, and then the sun slowly melts them away to nothing.” And he could only watch, every time.

France pressed a kiss into his hair, then straightened, coaxing Russia to his feet. His foot nudged a wine bottle and he winced as it clinked too loud against the others littering the floor. France didn’t comment, guiding him across the room with a gentle but firm hand to seat him on the edge of the bed. Russia watched, mesmerized, as France’s nimble fingers began to work open the silver buttons of Russia’s waistcoat.

“Are they sleeping?” he remembered.

“Who?”

“Colonies.”

“Ah, _oui_. I checked before I came to you.” France straighten, slipping the waistcoat back down Russia’s arms. The scent of roses wafted over Russia. He took off the waistcoat the rest of the way, then grabbed France’s waist—France made a not-displeased sound of surprise as Russia pulled him into his lap, knees to either side of Russia’s hips. He buried his face in France’s chest, inhaling deeply as his hands snaked up the other’s back to grip his shoulders, locking him in place. He felt France’s smile through the man’s hands, gently stroking Russia’s hair before cupping a cheek to tilt his face up, thumb resting on his lips. Russia swallowed thickly, his grip loosening as their eyes met. France stared, gaze searching, reading in violet eyes what Russia could only guess. He trembled.

When France kissed him, tender and deep and unquestioning, Russia shut his eyes, dropping his hands as something thin and slick curled up in his stomach. The man leveraged his weight forward, pushing Russia flat onto the bed, and Russia didn’t sit up again, staring up at France. His breath felt funny, too shallow, but maybe that was just the wine. France took another kiss, deeper; Russia submitted, a small mewl rising in his throat when France slid a knee between his legs. His hands found France’s shoulders again to pull him down, his weight covering him like a blanket. He hid his face in the sweep of France’s neck, felt France’s hand roaming down his sides. The shudder remained still within his bones, but not the hushed exhale that escaped when warm fingers slid again his skin.

He shifted. “France…”

“Mm?” The hum vibrated against the curve of his jaw. His stomach flipped, and he shook his head mutely. France kissed just over his pulse; Russia could feel his heartbeat against his lips.

He closed his eyes again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kto tam?: Who's there?
> 
> In full transparency, I'm cheating on the ranks here a little bit in terms of their style of spoken address. Empress Elizaveta ought to be addressed at "Her Imperial Majesty", but I was lazy and shortened it. The confusing part is the Grand Dukes.
> 
> Peter III, when he was Grand Duke, also should be "His Majesty", despite not be Emperor (yet). But Russia, also a Grand Duke as a courtesy title rather than indicating ability to inherit the throne, is styled "[His/Your] Imperial Highness". Which is a different style than Prince Sergei Alexandrovich's "[His/Your] Highness".
> 
> And for your knowledge, the imperial ranks from highest to lowest (as far as it matters for this story):
> 
> Emperor/Empress  
> Grand Duke/Duchess  
> Prince/Princess  
> Count/Countess  
> Baron/Baroness
> 
> But these are separate from the civil ranks! Because why make it easy!


	16. Gathering Threads

America woke up to the sound of birds and for one heart-wrenching moment thought he was in Menotomy. Then he remembered where he actually was, rolled over, and buried his face in his pillow. He inhaled the scent of roses and sat up, glaring at the pillow a moment before he slipped out of bed. Clothing retrieved from a chest, he dressed and opened the shutters, looking out across the gardens to the palace. He supposed the view was supposed to be breath-taking or something, but all it roused was a dull resentment, smoldering somewhere behind his rib cage.

He knew he should pray, but couldn’t muster the focus. Instead he flipped through the commonplace book, and found a snippet about roses:

_Roses are the great deceivers within the realm of flowers, for all their beauty and grace. Upon a first meeting, when convened from a distance, one might mistake the Rose to be a blossom of extraordinary caliber, with a well-tended rose bush bearing a multitude of blossoms are quite pleasing to the eye. Tender petals and a firm green stalk, glossy leaves toothed in an agreeable shape—one might be fooled into believing the Rose is a flower of incredible value and become endeared to the appearance and near-mythic qualities of the Rose, bolstered by much high praise duly recorded by those besotted._

_This is perhaps the greatest illusion of the Rose, which leads a man to lavish adoration and praise upon the object of his affection, only to discover, once he has taken to mind the thought of possessing such a treasure, that the Rose is more than velvet-soft petals and deep, sun-drenched colours. For the Rose conceals a great many thorns, solely for the purpose of injuring the hand which might touch it. To feel the sharp bite of thorns on unguarded flesh is to experience the reveal of the Rose’s true nature, that of a harridan and temptress, for like such sinful beings the Rose engenders within a man desires which ought never be fulfilled, for the suffering borne by their satisfaction can only lead to ruin and damnation. We must not forget that our Lord, when tormented by the Romans, was crowned by a circlet of thorns, which many Biblical scholars have agreed was twined from rose cane, in representation of man’s uncontrollable lust, conquered by the Lord as He trampled on sin and death with His Crucifixion._

_Mortal man must therefore follow the teachings of our Lord and seek to eschew all those desires and temptations that would lead a man from his salvation, to succumb not even to the petty siren’s call of the Rose, for as minor as such a temptation may appear, one temptation taken does weaken the soul and dangerously incline it towards more grievous transgressions. The Rose, though perhaps possessing a beauty and elegance unmatched by all other blossoms on this earth, stands as a reminder and warning to all, that no matter the outer appearance, one may yet conceal within a most foul and rotten soul._

America let the book fall shut in his lap, and stared at the rose garden beneath his window. He hoped they would leave Versailles soon.

A servant interrupted his musings, calling him to breakfast with the others. America groaned, tucked the book away, and went downstairs. Everyone else was already assembled.

“Do we _have_ to eat breakfast together?” he whined, taking the empty seat.

“One should never eat alone if at all avoidable,” France stated, folding his hands. “It defeats the entire purpose of dining.”

America held his tongue while France blessed the meal, then countered, “Isn’t the purpose of dining to lessen hunger? I can do that well-enough alone in my room.” He grabbed croissants off the platter and proceeded to slather them in butter and jam.

“The purpose of dining is the enjoyment of food with pleasant company,” France explained, gesturing broadly. “Isn’t that right, Russie?”

Russia shot him a bedraggled look warning France to leave him out of it. The dark circles under Russia’s eyes gave his round face a haunted look. He didn’t have anything on his plate, just a glass of amber liquid and a cup of tea.

“Well then, I guess that excuses me, doesn’t it?” America said brightly, hopping out of his chair. “Since you want pleasant company and all that—”

“America, sit,” Russia growled.

He frowned and climbed back into his chair. France arched his brows but didn’t say anything, sipping his dark Turkish coffee.

Now that they were off the ship, breakfast was more splendid than it had been when they first set out on their voyage. The table was set with croissants and butter and jam as before, but added to the options were dew-damp berries, a bowl of whipped cream (which Canada had added to his cocoa in generous spoonfuls), four or five different cheeses and crackers, slices of peach and plum… America ate his fill of fruit and cream before cautiously trying bits of cheese, though he avoided the one flecked with gray-blue. He mostly ignored France’s conversation with Canada, since it took effort to understand the French, though he caught the bit about Canada having lessons in the mornings. This was the end of the northern colony’s travels, he realized; France was trying to decide on a routine now. America wasn’t sure he was envious, but he was… something.

Next to him, Russia too sat in silence, sipping his amber drink while his eyes focused far away.

After France ended the meal, America made straight for the door.

“America.”

He sighed, turning back. “What?”

A frown creased Russia’s face. “ _Nyet_ , not ‘what’; you answer ‘yes’.”

America was pretty sure he’d answer whatever he pleased, but didn’t share this. “ _Yes?_ ”

“The tailor is coming this morning to take your measurements for a new set of clothes,” Russia said, leaning ever so slightly on the back of his chair. “Please don’t leave the grounds of the château until after you’re met with the tailor.”

“Fine.” He turned to go.

“No, not ‘fine’,” Russia corrected again. “The answer is ‘yes, understood’, or ‘yes, it’s clear’.”

America couldn’t repress the sneer but thankfully he was already turned away. “Yeah okay, I get it,” he called over his shoulder quickly.

“America—”

“I’ll be in my room!” he shouted, racing up the stairs.

—

Russia sighed, letting his head drop as he heard the door upstairs slam shut. He had too much of a headache for this. The bourbon took the edge off, but he wasn’t sure that would be enough for him to handle America for the morning.

“He’s going to be a pleasure at court,” France remarked dryly, dropping his napkin on his plate as he stood.

Russia leveled something just short of a glare at him. The kingdom shrugged. “It’s true.”

“As if I don’t know,” Russia mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face. He wondered if France was short with him because he had accidentally woken up the older nation a few times the night before. France had mostly taken it well at the time, drawing Russia to his chest and absently petting his hair, murmuring reassurances until the shaking stopped. But maybe that was just because France had been half-asleep and unable to muster up the energy to be annoyed at him.

Russia finished the bourbon, snagged a pastry from the kitchen and carried it back to his room with his tea. He sat at the writing desk, trying to tease his thoughts into something resembling plans for the day. The tailor would likely take up a large portion of the morning, and he should probably take the opportunity during luncheon to host Prince Sergei and Ambassador Chernyshev, if only to get a better picture of what had happened at court while he was gone. Oh hell, he should probably introduce them to America. The child didn’t have any of the training he’d need yet—Russia wasn’t sure he could find a tutor in France who could teach America the intricacies of Russian court mannerisms. How to behave in general, certainly, but… Russia might have to instruct the rest of it, at least until they reached the capital. But America had to have a basic idea before then.

He separated his cup and saucer, pouring the tea into the saucer before setting the cup down. With his left hand he carefully lifted the saucer, balancing its weight between his thumb and middle finger, using his index finger to steady it. He propped his elbow on the desk, sipping his tea from the saucer, fidgeting a quill in his right hand as he pondered the letter. He probably shouldn’t have left his aide-de-camp in Paris to assist the quartermaster with resupplying the ships, but at least he knew he had someone with the men level-headed enough to weather the news of Peter III’s ascension.

He set down the saucer with a soft click. _Tak_ , instructions to his aide-de-camp, formally notifying him of the Empress’s passing and the Emperor’s coronation, and the changes to their alliances, the question of which they would resolve upon their return. Better to tell the men himself, rather than have them pick up whispered rumours and fabrications. He impressed upon his aide the importance of keeping the men organized. They would be distraught, Russia knew they would be. They were not to cause trouble for their gracious French hosts—their restless energy should be focused towards resupplying as quickly as possible, so they could return to Pieter and be at hand should the monarch have need of them—

Russia paused, quill hovering over the page as he reread the last few lines. ‘Should the monarch have need of them’… That was, unusually vague phrasing. He meant Peter, didn’t he? He moved to cross it out and paused. No, he definitely meant Peter, the men would know that. And he wanted the letter to look clean. A cross out could indicate uncertainty. He left the phrase untouched and finished the instructions, sending a servant for another glass of bourbon to finish off the headache.

He would meet with France after the luncheon, provided he could track down the man, and inform him of the earlier-than-planned departure. France wouldn’t be happy. Russia would repay him with concert and party attendance, humour him by meeting with Louis for dinner and pretending not to notice when the nobles hid amused and sympathetic smiles behind their fans upon hearing his accent.

The servant returned with another bourbon and word that the tailor had arrived. Russia downed the drink, finished his tea, and went to greet him, sending for America.

—

The servant interrupted the final cavalry charge that would either smash through enemy lines and route them, or dash his forces upon the rocks of fated history (it would be the former, America decided, but the men didn’t know that yet). He considered ignoring the soft scratching— _scratching_ , because France was so sensitive as to consider knocking too disruptive and impolite—but stood and answered. Shortly after he let his feet thunk down the stairs to properly demonstrate his disapproval that the men had to be kept in suspense in favour of arranging _clothes_.

Russia and the tailor were already talking when America paused by the doorway. The sitting room looked like someone had shaken out a casket of multi-hued fabric jewels over every available surface. He watched apprentices lay out bolts of silk and velvet, draping strips of lace in creams and whites over standing rods carried in especially for that purpose. One set down a neatly folded bundle of moss green silk on the nearest chair; when the lad turned away, America stepped up and ran his fingers over the silk, marveling at the texture, soft as clouds.

“Alfred.”

He looked up; Russia’s conversation with the tailor had paused, both men turned outward to face him. Russia gestured for him to come over and he did so, marveling at the height difference between the empire and the tailor.

“Alfred, this is Monsieur Florent Couture,” Russia introduced the man, who gave a sweeping bow. America managed an awkward half bow.

Russia glanced at him for a heartbeat before continuing, “Monsieur, this is Duke Alfred Kirkland, my ward.”

The tailor bent to kiss America’s hand; he let him, too busy staring at Russia in shock. Duke? Russia caught his eye and gave him a look that suggested they would talk about it later.

Monsieur Couture had him stand on a foot stool, arms out while he took measurements. America watched him in the mirror, and saw Russia standing a bit behind him, observing. He tired to ignore this. The tailor chatted away amicably until Russia pointed out that America wasn’t fluent in French yet.

The man shrugged. “All the more reason to speak French to him.”

After measurements they had to settle on colour. A large bound book containing fabric samples, all neatly stitched onto the thick pages and labeled in a precise hand, sat ignored on the table as nation and colony slowly inspected their options.

“Alfred, what colours do you like?” Russia asked.

America considered the rainbow covering the sitting room. “Blues and greens, mostly.”

Russia and the tailor took turns draping lengths of silk over him, stepping back for a better look only to declare the fabric ‘too light’ or ‘too dark’ or ‘too warm’ or ‘this makes you look ill’. The apprentices stacked the rejected into a steadily growing pile. America trailed his fingers over a deep blue; Russia noticed and plucked the bolt away, dropping it into the discard pile.

America frowned. “I like that color.”

“You’re not wearing Prussian blue,” Russia stated.

Finally they settled on a blue silk for the frock coat—cornflower, the tailor called it—a pale frosted green and butter yellow for waistcoats, and white breeches. America had a few thoughts about how long those breeches would stay white but he didn’t share them. He fidgeted as Russia and Monsieur Couture went over the final details, fluffing rows of lace as the apprentices ferried their supplies away, staring at the complex repeating patterns and wondering how women kept the whole picture in their head while they worked. Finally he and Russia were alone.

“Monsieur Couture will be back tomorrow to check the fit, and then you should have clothing sufficient to get you to _Pieter_.” Russia waved a servant towards the kitchens as he sat at the table.

America took a few steps towards him. “You called me a duke.”

“Yes.”

“ _Am_ I then?” he asked curiously.

Russia shook his head. “Not yet, no. Her— _His_ Majesty will bestow your rank when we reach the city.”

“And then I’ll be a duke?” What did that even mean?

“Probably. Or maybe a prince,” he groused, accepting a glass of red wine from the returning servant. “I don’t know; I’ve not done this before.”

“Not done what?”

“Had a colony,” Russia answered.

 _That_ much was evident, given what a poor job he was doing. America shifted his weight to one foot and back again. “Can I go now?”

“The way you say this is, ‘by your leave’ and then a person’s title. And then you wait for permission,” the empire said, setting down his wine glass. “Starting tomorrow, I think we will have etiquette lessons in the morning, when Canada is having his lessons.”

America made a face. “I don’t want etiquette lessons.”

“This is not actually up for debate,” Russia replied. “In a little more than two months’ time, you are going to be in one of the most powerful courts in Europe. You have to know how to behave.”

“Didn’t seem to matter for you when you first came to Europe,” America muttered.

Russia stared. “Your lessons start tomorrow,” he repeated coolly. “You may leave.”

America turned—

“You bow to the person you’re speaking with.”

America turned back incredulously; Russia nodded once as he finished, “Then you leave.”

America dipped a short bow, turned on his heel, and left, slamming the door behind him.

Russia stared at the closed door for a hand-span of seconds, before snatching up his wine glass and hurling it at the wall. The glass shattered, wine splattering like a gunshot wound; he shuddered, and looked away.

—

Russia timed the luncheon to match when France would stand with his queen, receiving petitions and requests, Canada tucked by his side like a ghost, instructed to listen and learn and not speak. All but the minimum number of servants needed to serve the meal were sent away for the afternoon.

He could not forgot that he was in court now. That Versailles was not his court mattered little. He didn’t need to be in a _skazka_ , a fairytale, to live in a place where the walls had eyes and ears. He worried for a moment that perhaps he was being unfair to France, and dismissed it.

Prince Alexandr and Count Chernyshov appeared at essentially the same time, wearing powdered wigs and as much finery as they could muster, as if they were being received by His Majesty himself. Chernyshov’s jacket was the colour of dried blood, a somber suggestion of his age, a compulsion Alexandr did not share in his ruby red jacket. Russia wondered how many people saw them arrive together, and decided it didn’t matter—no one would mark the visit as suspicious.

He received them in the foyer, accepting Chernyshov’s gift of port and Alexandr’s presentation of honey from the Urals with equal thanks, trying not to show favoritism.

“Ah, is that…?” Alexandr was looking up the staircase; when Russia turned, he saw America standing there, faintly bristled from being noticed. So much for not introducing America until he was ready, gesturing for the colony to join them. At least the child was presentable, fully dressed in a jacket and waistcoat. Russia readied the apologies he would use to smooth over America’s blunders.

As America reached the foyer, Russia introduced him in French, “Your Highness, Your Excellency, this is Duke Alfred Kirkland, my ward.” The minimal shock that flickered over their faces gave Russia a good idea of how many rumours had already escaped into the corridors of the palace.

America bowed to Alexandr first, Chernyshov second; when he said “pleased to meet you”, his French carried only a hint of his English accent. Russia hid his surprise and reassessed what they would need to cover in the etiquette lessons, watching America’s baffled thanks as the two men showered him with praise—such a polite young man, what manners, a strong chin and brilliant sapphire eyes, a future colonel perhaps or even a major.

Russia let this carry on for a brief span before gently intervening, noting the continual blush on America’s face when Russia remarked on the colony’s quick grasp of new material and how much he had learned already. The pleased pink remained as Russia dismissed America back upstairs.

He switched back to Russian once America was out of earshot and brought the guests to the dining room. A small feast had been laid out in the style of true Russian hospitality, plates of candied fruit and squares of toast piled high with smoked salmon and caviar, a rich cream soup and a roasted quail for each, red-ripe tomatoes soaked in olive oil beside fresh-pulled mozzarella, oysters in white wine, and a host of mostly French dishes sufficient for double their number. Russia let the conversation linger on pleasantries for half of the first course, then steered them directly into politics.

What could they tell him of Peter’s reign thus far? What did the court think? What did the Guards think? Could either produce a list of his proclamations and orders? Where was Ivan Ivanovich Shuvalov, Elizaveta’s Imperial Favourite? Or Count Alexei Grigorievich Razumovsky, the so-called ‘Emperor of the Night’, Elizaveta’s first lover and possibly secret husband? And Peter-- Peter clearly intended to rule alone; what about that Prussian mistress of his, Die Fräulein? Where was the Grand Duchess, still locked in the gilt cage that was Oranienbaum palace where Elizaveta Petrovna had placed both her and Peter? Did Peter have anyone in the Polish court? He was being too blunt in his questions, putting too much stock in speaking Russian and limiting the number of servants present, as if this would be sufficient to stop the tongues.

Alexandr dominated the answers, eager to please—no doubt he heard from his mother how great his family had once been, the hand they had in court. From the way Chernyshov’s eye caught Alexandr’s, Russia suspected the count was coaching the prince in the finer techniques of swaying the mind. He would be good at it, Russia decided, as he listened to Alexandr recall from memory long stretches of Peter’s publications, so long as learned to smother his enthusiasm under a cloak of indifference. Chernyshov had backed a good horse, one he no doubt hoped would carry him to a safe position within the shifting court.

“I expect my summons to arrive any day,” Chernyshov confessed, wiping tomato juice from his mouth. “It’s likely His Majesty will appoint a Shuvalov to my post, knowing nothing of the French save rumours that drift in on the tides.”

“I hope for his sake and mine that his French is impeccable,” Russia mumbled, carving up a slice of quail.

“He could speak better French than His Majesty King Louis himself, and I doubt it would avail us much. The whole French court is grumbling,” the ambassador groused.

Russia rolled his eyes. “About what? A rise in the price of silk?”

“No, Your Majesty. The Treaty of Paris.”

Russia stilled at Chernyshov’s grave tone. “Why, what of it?”

“There is talk of unjust treatment, that territories were divided unfairly.” Chernyshov shifted, leaning forward to confide. “There are those who say France was robbed, that Russia has taken advantage of French hospitality.”

Russia remembered France kneeling over him on the bed, wine-stained kisses and roaming hands and suggestions given like statements of fact, like commands.

Chernyshov continued, voice low. “There are concerns that the ‘bear of the East’ is growing too strong. Some go as far to say that it’s high time to call a bear-tamer, to bring the bear to court in chains— a mere diversion, like it should be.”

Russia felt his stomach curl; had he selected a bad wine? “Who said this?”

“His Majesty the King, in his less sober moments. He’s envious of our expansion, first to the east, now to the west. Duke Louis Philleppe agrees. As does the Duke de Versailles—”

“He said that?” Russia hissed.

“Also in his less sober moments,” Chernyshov said with a nod. “No doubt these concerns are fueled by His Majesty Peter’s declared alliance with Fredrick—the French have no great love for the Prussians these days—”

Russia tried to listen, forced the tremor in his hands to still. He saw in his mind’s eye France lounging on a sofa, a pretty noble lady in his lap and one beside him, glass of wine dangling from his fingertips as he recounted concocted tales of the barbarism of Russian troops. _Like animals, really,_ he’d say. _Bears and wolves and carrion birds, picking at the scraps from their betters._

The room was too hot, too stifling. He stood and threw open a window—the stench of horse dung engulfed him. “Is there no place to find rest?” he snarled, slammed the window shut so hard the glass rattled.

His guests had gone silent; Chernyshov’s grip on his cane knuckled white. Russia returned and plucked up his glass, draining the compote in a single gulp before leaning both hands on the table. “The French don’t surprise me; they have always been hypocrites.” He could picture the look on France’s face when that reached his ears. “Tell me of His Majesty Peter— this is my focus.”

Alexandr shifted, glancing at Chernyshov before he continued recounting what he knew of Peter’s orders and his alliances in court. Russia listened, hands still braced on the table, head bowed, eyes fixed on the half-eaten carcass of quail on his plate.

Let France whimper and lick his wounded pride. There were more important matters in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get back to court, get slammed by politics; there is no rest.
> 
> Russia mentions a number of key political figures during the luncheon, recapped here:
> 
> Ivan Ivanovich Shuvalov: Empress Elizaveta's second lover, who despite his great fortunes mostly refused all the honours she wished to bestow upon him, though he accepted the office of Minister of Education. He founded the Academy of Three Noble Arts (later the Imperial Academy of the Arts), serving as president wherein he would admit not only noble boys, but even peasant children who showed promise in the arts. He mostly stayed out of politics, resisting family pressure to get involved in the machinations of the Shuvalovs, and was generally well-liked by all.
> 
> Count Alexei Grigorievich Razumovsky: The son of a Cossack, Empress Elizaveta's first lover and quite possibly secret morgantic husband. Unlike Ivan Ivanovich, he had no qualms about getting involved in politics, helping Elizaveta ascend the throne in 1741 by coup. However, after that point he left direct involvement in politics alone, suggesting that his assistance to Elizaveta was borne of love and not a desire for personal advancement (though Elizaveta bestowed several honours on him). He managed Elizaveta's court, and his rooms in the Summer Palace directly joined hers, allowing him unparalleled access. Rumours abound in court about a secret daughter had with Elizaveta...
> 
> Die Fräulein: Elizaveta Romanovna Vorontsova, Peter's mistress and a generally unpleasant person who swore like a soldier, spit while talking, and was frankly somewhat dirty and poor smelling. To the utter confusion of the court, Peter developed a fondness for her strong enough that there are concerns he will divorce his wife and force her into a nunnery in order to his mistress...

**Author's Note:**

> This story will update every Friday (save one Friday of the each month, when I'll be at my apprenticeship), and is slated to run 23 chapters.


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